You walked in to find me angrily measuring dry and wet ingredients while squinting at the recipe on my phone.
“Ugh,” I sighed. “I don’t care to read your life’s story. Just show me the damn recipe!”
“You ok?” you asked, sensing tension and frustration.
I unloaded on you about my workday. About how my team VP stole credit for my new lucrative account lead as his own. About how the nepotism hire in finance needed to correct my invoice request three times before getting it right. It was one of those days where you feel you’re an insignificant cog in an ever-rolling machine.
“Anyway,” I said, returning my attention to the work of meticulously measuring ingredients. “I just want to eat my feelings tonight. Cupcakes and alcohol for dinner.”
“Roger that,” you said, putting your stuff down and kicking off your shoes in your daily routine of shedding into comfort at home.
I strode across the kitchen and bent down to open the lower cabinet, digging for a muffin tin. I was still wearing my business casual work outfit, black pencil skirt that fell just below my knees, hugging the curves of my perky ass, and a red low cut sleeveless camisole that puckered around my tits. My hair was tied up in a messy bun atop my head, pinned in place with a number 2 pencil.