“Let me tell you what that bitch Phylicia said today,” Carrie said when she walked through the front door.
Roland rolled his eyes. “Honey,” he whined, “can you sit down, relax, take your clothes off before you start complaining about work?”
Carrie threw her purse down on the couch and yanked her arms from the sleeves of her coat. “She had the nerve to tell me ten minutes before a meeting that I was presenting the metrics of the new training system to the Key Users.” She leaned over the arm of the couch. “Uh, bitch, ain’t that your job?”
Roland picked up the remote and turned the volume up on the local news. That pretty, five-year-old girl with the beautiful, big, brown eyes was still missing. Police suspected her mother sold her for drugs.
“So here I am, scrambling around to prepare for this meeting. I don’t even know the first thing I need. And I didn’t get to eat lunch, so my stomach is practically roaring at me.” Her voice got higher, digging into his ears to scratch against his eardrums like a needle poking a cushion.
“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”
“Are you even listening?” She stood in front of the television and placed her hands on her hips. “She’s my boss, Roland. I can’t just go around pointing out her bitchiness.”
“Well if she’s asking you to take on some of her responsibilities, maybe you should ask her for a raise. Maybe she’s working on promoting you.” He leaned to the left and right, trying to look around her body to see the latest updates on the missing child.
“See, this is why you’re a man,” Carrie said, shaking her head. “This woman doesn’t give a damn about promoting me or giving me a raise. She wants to get rid of me. She puts all her work off on me because she don’t know shit. And if I screw something up, she can throw me under the bus and have me fired!”
Roland rubbed his temples. “Babe, please, I’m trying to watch the news.”
Carrie turned to the television, then turned back to him. “Are you serious? I’m trying to talk to you.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“All you do is complain about work. It’s giving me a damn aneurysm. I just want to see what happened to the little girl.”
Carrie’s jaw dropped. “So I’m annoying you, huh?” she said rolling her neck. “I’m making your head hurt. Is that right?” She turned her back to him, still standing in front of the television.
Roland let out an exasperated sigh. “Can you move, please?” he said louder than he wanted.
Carrie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know why you’re obsessing over this story. Her crackhead mom sold her into slavery. She’s probably dead.” She walked out of the living room without turning back to him. He threw the remote at her, barely missing her shoulder. If she’d noticed the the remote breeze pass her, she didn’t flinch.
The news had switched to the weather report. He would probably have to wait to the top of the hour for reports on the little girl again. Roland sank back into the couch and closed his eyes. “There’s more than one bitch at that office,” he mumbled under his breath.
This is in response to Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt is I/eye/aye.