"Really?" I say, feigning disbelief.
I know she was drunk yesterday. She is drunk every day.
"Yeah. Then we went to dinner at 'Cosmo' and had Bellini's until she threw up in the bathroom."
She wants me to be impressed. She wants me to think her life is one big party. In reality she was probably sitting in her cramped apartment with the lights off smoking weed all day and wallowing in her own misery.
Like this . . . only somehow sadder "Crazy." I say, turning back to my computer in an attempt to end the conversation.
"Fuck Mondays" she says in a dead tone, then she is gone.
One down. All the crazy women in this hell hole make a trip to my office in the morning. Why is anyone's guess at this point. It could just be habit.
Next is Jamie who tiptoes through my door frame as if she wants to startle me. Luckily sitting with my back to the door has attuned my other senses. You know when you hear about how blind people start to have incredible hearing to compensate? It's like that.
So she walks in and I immediately spin around in my chair to face her. The first thing that I notice is her outfit. Actually, it visually assaults me. She is wearing cropped bright blue leggings and an over sized pink shirt with a wide neck opening that falls down her shoulder. This is paired with stone gray heels that strap in the front. I steel my stare into her eyes to keep my expression from giving away how stunningly horrible her outfit is. She looks like a clown. Or a whore. Or a whore-y clown.
Oh God . . .what were the bananas for? "Hey Friend," she says in an almost whisper. It is my theory that this is meant to be sexy. Maybe she thinks she sounds like Marilyn Monroe. Mostly it comes off sounding as if she is afraid of you.
"Hi!" I reply. I find that her annoying whisper voice forces me to be louder to compensate. This has to make our interactions sound hysterical.
"How was your weekend?" She asks, again in a whisper. I know this game. She is only asking about my weekend so that she can talk about her own.
"Good," I respond. Then I wait . . . desperately locking her gaze to keep from staring at her outfit again.
"That's good . . ." she says, pausing momentarily, ". . . cause mine was awful!" I already know the story before she tells me. It is the same every week. Whoever she is dating had the audacity to ask her to split the bill on a date (the nerve!) then she was up all night binge drinking with friends so she got no sleep. And to top it off her mom asked her to clean or pay rent which qualifies her as abusive. Her story touches on all these points in some manner. When she finishes her tirade she shrugs and says something along the lines of "I'm lucky I'm so strong and resilient so I can handle all of what life hands me."
It's clear that she has read too many crappy scripts. It's gone to her head. I am about to try to dismiss her with sympathy when I notice her eyes staring out the window behind me. A dejected expression spreads across her face.
"Oh God . . ." she mutters, "Crystal."
Sure enough a white convertible Mercedes is pulling into the parking lot taking turns far too fast. It is Crystal. I close my eyes and sigh, feeling my blood pressure increase. Jamie looks down to me and gives me a bleak smile.
"Uh . . . Good Luck" she whispers in her timid way. She turns and scurries down the hall as fast as she can in her ugly gray heels.
I try to mentally prepare myself for what is next. . .
