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seasonal
Moon
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2015
She doesn't aspire to be intimidating; it happens. Walking down the halls of the company, her heels clicking and her hair bouncing around her in perfect blonde curls that take hours to do each morning, she seems to intimidate her co-workers--or rather, her employees. They scurry, working harder and pretending to be more focused, as though she's there intent on scolding them for slacking off.
You see, they're not her problem. When she comes in to work, she's not there to make sure they're doing their job. Cynthia's job is simple; keep their boss' reputation pristine. It's her job to make sure that, whenever his face and name is in the paper, it's about his charity work, his success, his loving wife, and nothing else. She does her job well, she thinks. Just last week she was in awe of the article about his charity banquet (he raised so much for inner city kids, blah, blah, blah). That's her job. Make him look good. Make sure he never looks bad.
But he doesn't make it easy.
He never seems to make it easy.
Here and there, she's called in; he tells her he's messed up--he's been caught by the paparazzi leaving some hotel with some woman--and she has to bust balls to get those photographs back. Of course, she always gets the photographs (she has to pay a pretty penny for said photographs but she gets them back), and she can leave his office knowing that his reputation for being a loving, successful husband is still intact.
But when she comes in, she looks intimidating, and today is no different. She waltz down the hall to his office, his walls made of glass, and his blinds are closed tightly, keeping his privacy intact. Her hand is clenched tightly around her phone, and she's certain if she holds it any tighter, she'll shatter the screen. She spots his secretary, a young girl with short, red hair and freckles dusting her cheeks and nose.
"Is he in there?" Cynthia asks, fixing her dress (form-fitting and white to bring out the red lips) before stopping at the secretary's desk.
She looks up, unsurprised to find Cynthia standing there, in a mood. "He should be back, I think. He had a meeting."
"A meeting," she muses. "Could have sworn I was told to come in at twelve-thirty. Well."
She moves past the desk. By now, the secretary knows better than to stop Cynthia. If she wants to enter the room, then she'll enter the room. Pushing the door open, she turns back to the secretary, smiling a small smile that's clearly forced onto her lips.
"I'll take a scotch while I'm waiting, and when he arrives--tell him I'm waiting inside."
"Should I mention that you've started drinking?"
She snorts, shrugging. "If I'm here, I think he knows already."
Cynthia's not a heavy drinker; but a glass before "shit flies" so to speak seems to work for her. Of course, this meeting could be a simple one. Maybe he's going to give her a raise for all her hard work. After all, she made him look so good at the banquet last week. And with the spread he has to do in a few days, with a magazine much akin to Forbes, maybe she's getting a vacation.
To lie on a beach in Bora Bora with a Margarita in her hand is so incredibly cliche, but it's dream she's had for a long time, and she hopes to follow it one day.
She sits in her familiar seat, with the cushion in the back seat cushions her nicely, and waits. She takes in the clean, sharp look to his office. In no time, her drink is brought to her, and she nods when the secretary mentions she wouldn't have to wait very long.
You see, they're not her problem. When she comes in to work, she's not there to make sure they're doing their job. Cynthia's job is simple; keep their boss' reputation pristine. It's her job to make sure that, whenever his face and name is in the paper, it's about his charity work, his success, his loving wife, and nothing else. She does her job well, she thinks. Just last week she was in awe of the article about his charity banquet (he raised so much for inner city kids, blah, blah, blah). That's her job. Make him look good. Make sure he never looks bad.
But he doesn't make it easy.
He never seems to make it easy.
Here and there, she's called in; he tells her he's messed up--he's been caught by the paparazzi leaving some hotel with some woman--and she has to bust balls to get those photographs back. Of course, she always gets the photographs (she has to pay a pretty penny for said photographs but she gets them back), and she can leave his office knowing that his reputation for being a loving, successful husband is still intact.
But when she comes in, she looks intimidating, and today is no different. She waltz down the hall to his office, his walls made of glass, and his blinds are closed tightly, keeping his privacy intact. Her hand is clenched tightly around her phone, and she's certain if she holds it any tighter, she'll shatter the screen. She spots his secretary, a young girl with short, red hair and freckles dusting her cheeks and nose.
"Is he in there?" Cynthia asks, fixing her dress (form-fitting and white to bring out the red lips) before stopping at the secretary's desk.
She looks up, unsurprised to find Cynthia standing there, in a mood. "He should be back, I think. He had a meeting."
"A meeting," she muses. "Could have sworn I was told to come in at twelve-thirty. Well."
She moves past the desk. By now, the secretary knows better than to stop Cynthia. If she wants to enter the room, then she'll enter the room. Pushing the door open, she turns back to the secretary, smiling a small smile that's clearly forced onto her lips.
"I'll take a scotch while I'm waiting, and when he arrives--tell him I'm waiting inside."
"Should I mention that you've started drinking?"
She snorts, shrugging. "If I'm here, I think he knows already."
Cynthia's not a heavy drinker; but a glass before "shit flies" so to speak seems to work for her. Of course, this meeting could be a simple one. Maybe he's going to give her a raise for all her hard work. After all, she made him look so good at the banquet last week. And with the spread he has to do in a few days, with a magazine much akin to Forbes, maybe she's getting a vacation.
To lie on a beach in Bora Bora with a Margarita in her hand is so incredibly cliche, but it's dream she's had for a long time, and she hopes to follow it one day.
She sits in her familiar seat, with the cushion in the back seat cushions her nicely, and waits. She takes in the clean, sharp look to his office. In no time, her drink is brought to her, and she nods when the secretary mentions she wouldn't have to wait very long.
---
Name: Cynthia Ackers