Just Like That

MEL

Stifling a yawn, I wander out of my bedroom, my eyes landing on the pile of contract papers on my coffee table. They’ve been sitting there ever since Pete left two days ago.

Setting the coffee machine going, I duck into the bathroom, showering myself semi-awake – caffeine will have to do the rest – I pull on jeans and a sweater and move through to pour myself a mug of coffee. Shaking in the creamer, I stir it through, wrinkling my nose. I want real cream. I miss real cream.

Dropping a couch cushion onto the floor, I sink onto it, setting down my mug and reaching for the contract. I slowly flick through it. Pete didn’t have any complaints about the wording or anything. I pause on the last few pages. The non-disclosure agreement.

It wasn’t until he got to this page that Pete told me not to take the job. I scan through it. Nothing leaps out. Nothing awful. Maybe he’s overreacting. He has attorney-client privilege with his work, so NDAs aren’t something he would have to sign.

Maybe he dislikes them on principle. Maybe because he automatically has that coverage for work things, he associates them with bad things. With people who want to get away with treating their employees badly, or whatever.

But I’m not some damsel-in-distress. My lips press together as I snort softly. After all, he calls me Tinker Bell, not Sleeping Beauty or some other princess who was helpless until her prince came riding in to save her. I’m not his type because I’m not a damsel-in-distress.

I can take care of myself. Nothing is stopping me from quitting if it’s a truly awful place to work. What are they going to do - blacklist me in Seattle? I’m out of here after I graduate anyway. I would only be working for them for the next three and a half months. Then I’m putting this place in my rearview mirror.

Well, I don’t have a car, so I’d be putting it in the bus or train’s rearview mirror. Do trains have rearview mirrors? Shit. I’m getting sidetracked.

I remember Pete’s lips hard on mine, telling me to turn this down. But I don’t think I will. Picking up my phone, I email an acceptance, telling them I will drop off the signed contract today. I fetch a pen from my kitchen drawer, flipping through the contract and signing everywhere I need to.

I find an envelope, slide the contract into it and seal it. I’ll get the bus over after I have breakfast. Standing, I fetch a bagel and some trimmings, humming to myself as I prepare it.

My fingers pause on the knife as I remember Pete pulling me out of the pool and spanking me, my stomach fluttering, and my vagina pulsing. Maybe he will spank me again for accepting this. Maybe I’m hoping he will.