one to arrive late. “I’ll buy myself a coffee and I’ll go in. Go and ask him whether he wants a coffee.”
His eyes opened up even wider.
“Ask who?”
“The boss, who else?”
The morning was too beautiful to ruin my day so early. It wouldn’t be the first time nor the last that someone arrived late to a meeting. Furthermore, that someone was not anyone.
“Are you crazy? I don’t think that buying coffee would be a good idea. Hurry up!”
“I want to make a good impression. Remember that this new boss thing is new to me.”
As soon as I said that to Alex, I thought the better of it. If I would be arriving late, I needed to have enough caffeine in my body to deal with the day ahead of me. I thought about the possible scenarios that would surround my triumphant late arrival, but then I decided that it was not worth worrying about. I wouldn’t put even a tiny bit of the stress that I had suffered in the past few months in my system for being thirty minutes more late.
“On second thought, Alex, I think I’m going to need that coffee. Tell them that I’m still on my way.”
I got into my car and drove off to get my coffee. When I got back, a change in the Medika parking lot caught my attention. Norman’s son didn’t have bad taste: he drove a Nissan GT-R. The letters on the back of the pearl white car distracted me. Getting out of my car, I slung my purse over my right shoulder, dragged my computer case with my left hand, and my cup of coffee with the other. I entered at full speed, as always, through the back door. My cell phone rang but I had no third hand to delve into my purse. It was a circus-juggling act: holding the coffee, carrying case, purse, keys, answering the telephone, and getting to the meeting.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
I tripped on something in front of me, and got the coffee all over me. I burned my hands and chest. I looked up and discovered that I hadn’t hit a wall, unless the wall had toffee-colored hair, a goatee, fair skin, an annoyed look on his face, and didn’t stop saying the word “shit.”
This must be Eliezer. But… those eyes? That look?
“Damn it! Look at what you’ve done!” He shook off the coffee that was dripping from his hands and jacket.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” I apologized while I looked for a wet wipe in my purse to help him clean himself off.
This will solve it and he’ll thank me. Who wouldn’t sell their soul for one of these when they’re in a hurry?
“Let me clean you off.”
I lifted one of the wipes up toward his jacket, but he raised his hands as a signal to stop–that he didn’t want me to help him, much less touch him. I was dumbfounded. I put the wipe in my other hand, still humid and sticky from the coffee, and began to extend it toward him. He begrudgingly snatched the wipe away from me.
“Really, I’m sorry,” I apologized again. “Are you Norman’s son?” I asked to slightly lower the tension that my trip had caused.
“Eliezer Clausell, President.”
I sensed that his words were more of a scolding than a greeting. Oh, that wasn’t good! Half an hour with a title and he was already delineating hierarchical boundaries.
“And you are?” he asked with an apparent intention of delighting in the answer that I would give him. He’d put the name on a personal blacklist.
“Miranda Wise,” I looked him in the eye and again extended my hand to consummate the glorious moment of meeting him. My name succeeded in attracting his attention, but it was not enough to avoid having my hand extended and ignored, hanging in mid air. He continued cleaning his jacket.
“International?” A contemptuous tone surrounded the question. How was I supposed to take that?
“Correct. You can call me International, Miranda, Director of International Business, or whatever you like.” I used an informal tone with every intention that he understand that I didn’t think much of that hierarchy stuff and treating people formally.
“I’m
His eyes opened up even wider.
“Ask who?”
“The boss, who else?”
The morning was too beautiful to ruin my day so early. It wouldn’t be the first time nor the last that someone arrived late to a meeting. Furthermore, that someone was not anyone.
“Are you crazy? I don’t think that buying coffee would be a good idea. Hurry up!”
“I want to make a good impression. Remember that this new boss thing is new to me.”
As soon as I said that to Alex, I thought the better of it. If I would be arriving late, I needed to have enough caffeine in my body to deal with the day ahead of me. I thought about the possible scenarios that would surround my triumphant late arrival, but then I decided that it was not worth worrying about. I wouldn’t put even a tiny bit of the stress that I had suffered in the past few months in my system for being thirty minutes more late.
“On second thought, Alex, I think I’m going to need that coffee. Tell them that I’m still on my way.”
I got into my car and drove off to get my coffee. When I got back, a change in the Medika parking lot caught my attention. Norman’s son didn’t have bad taste: he drove a Nissan GT-R. The letters on the back of the pearl white car distracted me. Getting out of my car, I slung my purse over my right shoulder, dragged my computer case with my left hand, and my cup of coffee with the other. I entered at full speed, as always, through the back door. My cell phone rang but I had no third hand to delve into my purse. It was a circus-juggling act: holding the coffee, carrying case, purse, keys, answering the telephone, and getting to the meeting.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
I tripped on something in front of me, and got the coffee all over me. I burned my hands and chest. I looked up and discovered that I hadn’t hit a wall, unless the wall had toffee-colored hair, a goatee, fair skin, an annoyed look on his face, and didn’t stop saying the word “shit.”
This must be Eliezer. But… those eyes? That look?
“Damn it! Look at what you’ve done!” He shook off the coffee that was dripping from his hands and jacket.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” I apologized while I looked for a wet wipe in my purse to help him clean himself off.
This will solve it and he’ll thank me. Who wouldn’t sell their soul for one of these when they’re in a hurry?
“Let me clean you off.”
I lifted one of the wipes up toward his jacket, but he raised his hands as a signal to stop–that he didn’t want me to help him, much less touch him. I was dumbfounded. I put the wipe in my other hand, still humid and sticky from the coffee, and began to extend it toward him. He begrudgingly snatched the wipe away from me.
“Really, I’m sorry,” I apologized again. “Are you Norman’s son?” I asked to slightly lower the tension that my trip had caused.
“Eliezer Clausell, President.”
I sensed that his words were more of a scolding than a greeting. Oh, that wasn’t good! Half an hour with a title and he was already delineating hierarchical boundaries.
“And you are?” he asked with an apparent intention of delighting in the answer that I would give him. He’d put the name on a personal blacklist.
“Miranda Wise,” I looked him in the eye and again extended my hand to consummate the glorious moment of meeting him. My name succeeded in attracting his attention, but it was not enough to avoid having my hand extended and ignored, hanging in mid air. He continued cleaning his jacket.
“International?” A contemptuous tone surrounded the question. How was I supposed to take that?
“Correct. You can call me International, Miranda, Director of International Business, or whatever you like.” I used an informal tone with every intention that he understand that I didn’t think much of that hierarchy stuff and treating people formally.
“I’m
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