Written by: Amorica Croce
Late Night at The Office My uncle Jake would often remark: “Just because things ain’t hard, that don’t make’em easy”. I never understood what he meant by that growing up. I guess when the old folks tell you what to expect from life you really can’t grasp what they mean till the expected walks up and knocks the daylights out of you. I’m sure everyone has that moment where they wish they could rewind a pinnacle moment of life and do it over again. I often do when I think of all the times I should have gone left instead of right. I picture going left in my mind on a regular basis these days. When I picture it, it usually goes something like this. Days are monotonous…that shade of gray we all come to see and despise. You wear the same suit to the same job on the same day of your dreaded life. It would seem that the ninth ring of hell is a coveted vacation spot compared to the confines of a three by three cubicle plastered with post-it’s. The various and never changing days of my life where I started and ended up going right all looked like this; all except for one. I rarely stayed late at the office. But, I was a friendly gal and the cleaners used to let me in and out whenever I need to stay a little later. The winters are always the hardest to stay late. You dread the cold outside so much you don’t want to leave after a certain hour. Seven turns to eight which turns to nine and before you know it, it’s eleven p.m. on a Friday night and you’re still at the office. What I need is to get out of these cloths and into a hot bath…what I’ll settle for is some freshly brewed coffee. (more…)
Written by: Amorica Croce
I sit listening to a play list that logistically makes absolutely no sense to anyone but me: and I think of him. Of all the things I write and then rip up in a million pieces. I think of all the times I make voice recordings of what I can’t say…only to erase them seconds after I listen to how ridiculous I might sound to anyone with any kind of sense at all. It’s such a girl thing to do. Nonetheless I do it, we do it, women in general. We create these relationships that don’t exist. It has yet to be scientifically proven but women can actually envision the moment of a first kiss to dieing in the arms of the object of their affection in less than thirty seconds. It is either a significant sign of evolution or the saddest state of affairs known to man.
All this and more while I watch him pump his gas; in the same place he’d done it for the last ten years. It’s amazing how someone so great can be so predictable in the most trivial of instances. His hair was amazing. Never out of place–not even a millimeter: thick, jet black, and curly. That jacket clung to him like nothing I’d ever seen before except for how I’d seen it on him. I could feel the saliva gathering to the rim of my lips, almost and ever so slightly, trickling from the corner of my mouth. David was his name. I’d watched him for so long I could literally be a living testament to the evolution of his sex appeal. He must have brushed up against me paying for gas twenty or thirty times over the last ten years-not that he’d noticed. Our polite exchanges of “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me” paled in comparison to what I’d dreamt about before and after those few seconds of bliss. I can’t even count the times I sat alone in the window of that run of the mill super standard coffee shop franchise reaping the benefits of free WIFI just to catch a glimpse of him. I even know how David takes his coffee: large, four creams, four sugars.
But guys like David don’t notice girls like me. They notice the tall blonde who walks into their salon with already salon perfect hair, nails, and body. Guys like David become hair stylists so they can be in constant contact with those kinds of women. Because, let’s face it folks there are two kinds of people in this world: the kinds that go to the “Salon” and the rest of us who go see a “Hairdresser”. People like me we never get our hair touched by people like David: it simply costs too much. Me, I watch David from a coffee shop window and fantasize about what it would be like have all eight inches of him deep inside me…then I go home and fuck myself: because that’s just what I can afford: economically, emotionally, and mentally. (more…)
