honey, where's this relationship with Terry going?" Of course, Lonnie didn't have much of an answer. Somehow, saying "nowhere, that's the point" isn't the best way to pacify your Catholic mother. So Lonnie just circumvented the issue, which she'd had a lot of practice doing in her own head anyway. Sure, Terry was a great kid, but—wait, did she just think of him as a kid? This was worse than she thought. Terry was only twenty-five and a silly comedian, and now she thought of him as a great kid?
The T came to a jerking stop, and Lonnie hopped off the train, bustled past the panhandler who was hitting an overturned bucket again and again with no variation, and walked quickly down the street to Starbucks.
"Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam," the man directly in front of Lonnie ordered brusquely. "A grande, caramel macchiato, with skim milk. Light on the whipped cream. And a tall Americano. Don't leave room for milk."
The cashier nodded curtly, and hollered to the drink maker: "Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam! Grande, nonfat caramel macchiato, easy whip! Tall, no-room Americano!"
The drink maker echoed fiercely: "Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam! Grande, nonfat caramel macchiato, easy whip! Tall, no-room Americano!"
The man moved to the side to wait for his drinks, and Lonnie went up to the cashier, who appeared so expectant and poised to shout, it threw her. "Uh, a grande coffee," she ordered, and watched the cashier's crestfallen expression as he quietly filled her cup. She paid and took her coffee, but just as she was turning to leave, the first man was whipping around with his drinks, and bumped into her. Of course. Luckily, she was able to jump out of the way quickly, and her ice-blue coat was spared, as a big splash of soy cappuccino landed on the floor next to her feet. Her wooden heels weren't as fortunate as her coat, but she could deal with that later. She gave the man her best "you idiot" scowl, and left.
As she walked the one block to her office, she started to feel great about how she'd just avoided a disastrous incident. It was a mini-adrenaline rush; she was practically whistling by the time she got to the twenty-third floor. Heading toward her desk briskly, she glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:43. She was early, too? Fabulous.
Just as she was thinking her day wasn't off to a bad start, her soy-stained wooden heel caught on the now -annoyingly plush lavender-pink carpet, and Lonnie stumbled. Instinctively, she reached forward to grab her desk for support, and half of her coffee spilled onto the newly cleaned desktop.
"Fuck!" she exclaimed louder than she would've intended if she'd thought about it before it flew out of her mouth. Luckily, she was early and the office was quiet. The one thing she had noticed since she'd started working at Twit & Bell was that while lawyers did stay very late, they often didn't come into work till after nine thirty or ten in the morning. Lonnie tossed her precious, nearly martyred coat onto her leather chair, and went to the kitchen to get some paper towels.
The kitchen was pathetic. Delia usually took care of everything—stocking the drawers with napkins, coffee filters, tea bags, and Sweet 'N Low, not to mention making the coffee every day. For the past week or so, though, Delia seemed to have abandoned the task. Now, Lonnie noticed, there were no paper towels in the rack, or napkins in the drawers.
She headed down the hall to the supply room, where all the paper goods were kept, and as she approached, she heard faint voices. One of them was definitely Lunther's, whose office was next door. Lonnie ignored what she was sure was pointless blather—i.e., Lunther's specialty—and let herself into the walk-in supply closet. Once inside, her balance wobbled slightly as she tried to reach the fourth shelf for the rolls of paper towels. The other voice in Lunther's office got louder, and suddenly became clear. It was Macey
The T came to a jerking stop, and Lonnie hopped off the train, bustled past the panhandler who was hitting an overturned bucket again and again with no variation, and walked quickly down the street to Starbucks.
"Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam," the man directly in front of Lonnie ordered brusquely. "A grande, caramel macchiato, with skim milk. Light on the whipped cream. And a tall Americano. Don't leave room for milk."
The cashier nodded curtly, and hollered to the drink maker: "Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam! Grande, nonfat caramel macchiato, easy whip! Tall, no-room Americano!"
The drink maker echoed fiercely: "Venti, double soy, decaf cappuccino, no foam! Grande, nonfat caramel macchiato, easy whip! Tall, no-room Americano!"
The man moved to the side to wait for his drinks, and Lonnie went up to the cashier, who appeared so expectant and poised to shout, it threw her. "Uh, a grande coffee," she ordered, and watched the cashier's crestfallen expression as he quietly filled her cup. She paid and took her coffee, but just as she was turning to leave, the first man was whipping around with his drinks, and bumped into her. Of course. Luckily, she was able to jump out of the way quickly, and her ice-blue coat was spared, as a big splash of soy cappuccino landed on the floor next to her feet. Her wooden heels weren't as fortunate as her coat, but she could deal with that later. She gave the man her best "you idiot" scowl, and left.
As she walked the one block to her office, she started to feel great about how she'd just avoided a disastrous incident. It was a mini-adrenaline rush; she was practically whistling by the time she got to the twenty-third floor. Heading toward her desk briskly, she glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:43. She was early, too? Fabulous.
Just as she was thinking her day wasn't off to a bad start, her soy-stained wooden heel caught on the now -annoyingly plush lavender-pink carpet, and Lonnie stumbled. Instinctively, she reached forward to grab her desk for support, and half of her coffee spilled onto the newly cleaned desktop.
"Fuck!" she exclaimed louder than she would've intended if she'd thought about it before it flew out of her mouth. Luckily, she was early and the office was quiet. The one thing she had noticed since she'd started working at Twit & Bell was that while lawyers did stay very late, they often didn't come into work till after nine thirty or ten in the morning. Lonnie tossed her precious, nearly martyred coat onto her leather chair, and went to the kitchen to get some paper towels.
The kitchen was pathetic. Delia usually took care of everything—stocking the drawers with napkins, coffee filters, tea bags, and Sweet 'N Low, not to mention making the coffee every day. For the past week or so, though, Delia seemed to have abandoned the task. Now, Lonnie noticed, there were no paper towels in the rack, or napkins in the drawers.
She headed down the hall to the supply room, where all the paper goods were kept, and as she approached, she heard faint voices. One of them was definitely Lunther's, whose office was next door. Lonnie ignored what she was sure was pointless blather—i.e., Lunther's specialty—and let herself into the walk-in supply closet. Once inside, her balance wobbled slightly as she tried to reach the fourth shelf for the rolls of paper towels. The other voice in Lunther's office got louder, and suddenly became clear. It was Macey
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