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That was definitely my phone this…
“Good morning, Mr. Canon.”
I nod once. “Morning.” Whoever you are.
I grab my phone and scroll through items while more people load and shift around like tiles in a child’s puzzle game.
What would improve the percentages?
Conference at 4:00 today.
Di
Need the counter bids for—
Everyone shifts, and I press myself flush against the back wall. Then they shift again, no doubt allowing yet another person onto the elevator. If we don’t all plunge to the sweet release of our deaths, it will be a certified miracle.
Grand. The person now in front of me is nearly on top of me.
What the fuck?
Is that?
Yes, it is.
That is someone’s ass pressed up against my dick.
A round, pliant, warm ass.
She’s a brunette and comes up to my chin. That’s about all there is to say. She is all wavy, long tresses and a red dress of the simple¸ elegant variety. I don’t seem to recognize her. I also can’t see her face. That doesn’t really mean anything as I don’t normally dedicate much gray matter to employees who sit in cubicles. They might as well work for any of the other businesses that share this building, as far as I’m concerned.
I might’ve willfully opted to reserve a few brain cells for this particular figure though.
“Sorry.” I barely hear her voice. As the elevator starts its climb, her hand braces against my thigh, but I doubt she even realizes she’s done so.
“Not your fault.” I hear my own voice like that of a stranger.
Now, I’m at a loss as to why I would say that, why I would try to make her comfortable. It most assuredly is her fault. She is groping me and not respecting personal space. Crowded or not, there are some things one simply does not do.
One does not rub against strangers in elevators or grab onto legs in close proximity to dicks that have been in recent contact with lovely asses.
Lovely…
I shake my head and clear this train of thought, utilizing my phone as a suitable distraction while sca
Percentages are—
Market tria—
It’s hopeless. I can’t think clearly with her pressed against me.
And it pisses me off.
The elevator ride with her can’t be over fast enough. My floor is next and it is still taking far too long.
I resolve to never take the elevator again so that I can avoid this distracting person henceforth.
The doors open, and I make to move around her…but I can’t. I can’t move around her because she is already gone and has taken her pretty ass and what I now see are red heels along with her, passing through the doors onto my floor and into our open office area.
Well, this is terribly inconvenient.
The doors close, and we’re up another two floors before it registers that I’ve failed to exit.
2:58 p.m.
L ETTERHEAD C URRENTLY S AYS “Limited Liability Corporation” not “Company.” No such thing. Fix that.
KC Company is ripe for merger or buyout.
Conference call in one hour.
Di
That last thing I need to see when I leave my office is the first thing—the only thing—I manage to see.
She’s standing up among the cubicles. Volumes of hair and her red dress practically a dead-center bull’s-eye in my line of vision. Charts and ba
And, of course, even from this distance I can tell she is rather pretty. The fact that she’s not a hag with a comely figure is, of course, par for the day.
She’s probably ugly on the inside. I’ll cling to that hope.
Crap. What was I leaving my office for? I keep walking steadily, not letting the thoughts tripping my mind find their way to my feet.
I realize I am still looking at her as I begin to turn down the hall. I blink away. Shake her image from my brain. It has more important things on which to focus. Fine. It is decided. The sooner I ferret out her flaws and irritating habits, the sooner I can get back on task.
I look back one last time.
Acknowledgments
I am forever grateful for the support and inspiration of the collective of friends who were drawn improbably together over affection for one story, kept together through artistic efforts, and remain a constant foundation for one another now. They prove every single day that the coincidence of geography may be overcome to find the most compassionate, creative, and loyal friends that any person could be blessed to have. Look out world should they all be in the same room together one day.
About the Author
Qwen Salsbury was born in Kansas and somehow keeps ending up back there. Raised on her grandparent’s five-acre homestead within the city limits, her imagination was honed during long days of quiet play and spartan access to a TV signal. Now mother to handsome boys, she strives to ensure that they appreciate potential adventures found within the pages of a book, an honest day’s work, and what ingenuity may yield from mundane objects like a string and a cup. The boys prefer a PS3.
After spending time in corporate America, she returned to school and received a BA in English—Creative Writing/Poetry from Pittsburg State University, the alma mater of Pulitzer Prize wi
A seven-time Sigma Tau Delta writing award wi
For reasons she can’t even articulate herself, she decided to start writing fiction again while solo parenting and going to law school.
The writing of The Plan took on the form of a journal, which she posted online in “real time” over the Christmas holiday. It was immensely popular and many devoted readers still meet en masse online to read it in real time again each holiday season. Now greatly expanded to nearly double its original length, she believes that this book will be both a fun new read as well as rewarding to those who have already enjoyed the original story.
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