Hindus, the Buddhists—”
“Or the atheists or agnostics,” adds Kars with a faint smirk.
“Or them either,” agrees Linda in all seriousness.
I smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be very sensitive. We won’t offend anybody’s religion, race, culture, nationality—”
Kars jumps in, “Language, sexual orientation, disability, size, marital status, beliefs, education, lifestyles, gender or physical appearance.”
I nod fervently. “Rest assured, Linda, I shall not discriminate, segregate or abate.”
Linda’s mouth parts and stays parted. Eventually, she says, “Now girls, you have ten more minutes before you’re scheduled to get back on the phones. All right?”
“All right-y,” we chime in unison and sashay to the break room.
Kars nudges me. “Maybe we’ll see some eye candy.”
“Maybe...” I smile coyly.
In the break room, I reach inside the freezer for my popsicles and gasp in horror, “Someone’s been eating my popsicles! There’s only one left and I had six when I stored the box! I feel violated!”
Kars harrumphs. “That’s why I never store any food in the break room. Too many idiots here steal food. Such vermin!”
“So, where exactly do you store your food?” I slam the freezer with deliberate force.
“The lactation room,” Kars says simply. “It’s equipped with a mini fridge slash freezer. Nothing’s stored there except for breast milk. And more importantly, no one will steal your food.”
I make a mental note of that. “Here,” I hand Kars the last popsicle. She takes it and I toss the Dreyer’s box into the trash.
I miss.
The box ricochets off the trash can, skates across the linoleum floor and stops in the middle of the break room.
Right that second, Darren and Carlos strut into the break room. Darren bends down and reaches for the Dreyer’s box. Box in hand, he holds it like a ball and shoots it into the trash can like a pro basketball player. NBA, not college level.
Darren Williams is tall and gorgeous, with light olive skin; and he sports a sexy goatee that very few men can pull off—the Orlando Bloom goatee. A faint tache and soul patch combo.
Carlos Martinez is a suave Latino from Venezuela, with the physique and build of a matador.
Kars and I try not to stare...they’re too beautiful for words.
Darren acknowledges us with a lift of his cleft chin.
We kind of know him. He sits right next to Mika and whenever we pay Mika a visit, we are very aware of Darren’s hawtness.
“Hey,” I grunt with casual indifference.
Kars jerks her chin. “Wassup brotha.”
Playing it cool, we swagger out of the break room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Darren and Carlos heading for the foosball table. My eyes gravitate to their solid butts that are nicely shaped by their fitted jeans. I’m so glad that fitted jeans are back in fashion.
That’s one of the reasons why I resent baggy jeans—no bum watching. Bum watching is akin to bird watching. It’s a lifetime activity that can be enjoyed in many parts of the world, transcending language barriers and cultures.
Kars and I continue staring. It’s not every day you get to see such fabu butts when so many men these days are cursed with assless frog butts.
“That Hot Cocoa is one fine specimen,” I say dazedly, tripping over a snag in the carpet.
Kars is in a similar trance. “Hot Cocoa Darren? Nah, I was checking out Carlos, the Hot Tamale.”
HR Linda ambles by, peering through her bifocals, waggling her finger at us admonishingly.
Whoopsie! I guess she must’ve heard us.
Thirteen
Tick Tock, I’m watching the clock. Yesssssssss! Only six more minutes left, then I’m done for the day! I’m so euphoric that my shift is almost over that I’m humming a happy tune, “Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! It’s home from work I go!”
Ordinarily, I’d jab the Not Ready key five minutes before my shift ends, but not today. I’ve been written up for excessive Not Ready time, so I have no choice but to stay logged in.
Only three minutes left. Two. One minute left.
My index finger hovers over the Log Out button—
Beep!
“F#@!*&!#@!*!” I release a steady stream of profanity.
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?”
“This is a relay call. My name is Amy and I’m a California relay service operator. Have you taken a relay call before?”
I bash my head against the keyboard. “Yes I have,” I mutter, struggling to keep the impatience from my voice. I know it’s not this operator’s fault, nor is it the deaf caller’s.
Honestly, I have nothing against the hearing impaired.
The timing is just crap. And relay calls take forever and ever.
Kars perches on my