We went over this before, remember?
Molly Quinn wakes up at five a.m.
That’s the way I do things.
Today is different, and it begins with the sunlight shining in my room, announcing for me to wake the fuck up already.
I stretch again and tug the covers up closer to my neck while glancing at the alarm clock on my night stand.
Holy shit! It’s already nine o’clock in the fucking morning.
Well…I guess we both know what that means: I’m not going into work today.
I grab my cell phone off the night stand and proudly yawn as I dial Katrina’s direct line.
I imagine her sitting in her cubicle, spanning the office wondering where the hell I am and if I’m going to show up.
She’ll have her answer in a few seconds. I’m turning over a new fucking leaf and apparently taking my father’s advice to heart by literally lightening the fuck up.
Oh, yeah, this new me swears a great deal, too, because I don’t fucking care anymore. Not after that shit show at lunch with my dad.
Katrina picks up the line immediately, most likely recognizing my number, but also because it’s part of her job to answer the phone.
“Molly?” Her voice is quizzical on the other end.
“Hey, Katrina,” I chime, so cheerily she probably wonders if I’m surrounded by fucking Disney animals while they braid my hair and magically make my bed.
“Are you coming into work today? It’s nine already.” Her voice reveals her concern.
“Nope.” I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.
“I’m sorry, is everything alright?” Katrina asks.
“Everything is perfect,” I state.
I don’t owe Katrina that much of an explanation; I’m her boss after all.
“I’ll be working from home today,” I announce. “If you need me, you can text, call or email.”
“Okay,” Katrina says, and I can tell she’s confused.
“You can report anything important or pressing if it comes up,” I add.
“Sure thing,” she responds, and we say goodbye.
I hang up and stretch again, savoring in the fact that I don’t have to even get out of bed if I don’t want to, but who the fuck am I kidding here? I live on coffee in the morning.
I pull my hair back in a no-nonsense ponytail and climb into some bright pink jogging capris. I pull a tank top over my head that reads, “I survived Mardi Gras, NOLA 2012.”
I walk to my kitchen but stop dead in my tracks when my doorbell rings.
I’m not expecting anyone, and everyone I know will expect me to be at work, so I’m having a perplexing moment of wonder.
I walk to the door and stand on my tip toes to peer through the peep hole.
It’s Owen Wolfe. Damn! What the hell is he doing here?
I swing the door open and breezily greet him with a smile. “Good morning!”