Time. It is always about time. Sally couldn't avoid it; business was brisk and she was always on the phone, trying to get things done as she multi-tasked with other things.
It wasn't like that before; life was a little easier then, when she was still a lowly executive. Now, being the manager of several large portfolios, Sally found herself living on the edge of life, always rushing from one meeting to the next, always rushing from one report to the next.
As she was putting her printed invoices together, her phone rang. Sally grabbed the receiver.
``Hi, Sally Simmons speaking.''
``Sally? What are you still doing in the office? Aren't you supposed to be at the Victorian Concert Hall in about 10 minutes?''
``Oh my gosh! I'm so so sorry Alan, I'll be right there. Work's been so hectic today that I forgot about the time. Be there in a few!''
Putting down the receiver, Sally re-tidyed her invoices into a neat pile on her desk and stepped away from the fray. It was already past seven, and most of her colleagues have already left for the evening. She had planned to leave earlier, but the client's data was coming in during the afternoon and thus she had to adjust the figures that she had on the client.
Pushing her executive chair in, Sally picked up her briefcase, walked towards the coat-hanger and grabbed her coat, walked towards the open door, flicked the light switch off, stepped out, closed the door, and locked it before heading to her car.
Victoria Concert Hall wasn't too far away from where Sally worked; just a five-minute drive. Taking the elevator down from her office to the basement carpark, Sally tried to recompose her thoughts. Alan had invited her to a night out to the symphony that was playing that night. The theme for the night was Bach, and she knew that Alan loved Bach's music more than anything else.
More importantly, it was the first major date that they had ever since she was promoted to that of manager. Alan was a great catch, and she knew it; yet each time whenever she wanted to get even closer to him, something happened externally to force her to keep her distance.
Tonight though, it was supposed to be the night. The night that she made her move. But already she's starting on the wrong foot; by forgetting about the time while working.
The elevator door opened, and Sally walked briskly out of it towards her car. She got into the car and turned the ignition. The head lights lit and the car started rolling forward. She was on to the concert hall.
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 28 Feb 2008 17:39:40)
Friday, 29 February 2008
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Red Tie
It was of little doubt that he had to look his best. No question about it. No siree. There's almost no other way around it.
It had to be that way. A suit. And a tie. He might not like the whole ``suited'' feel, but it was one of the requirements that he had to deal with. He had the suit, but he had no idea about the tie.
There was a long history between he and his ties. Each tie that he had ever owned was reduced to shreds for one reason or another; a most strange but utterly coincidental occurrence. At least, that was what he thought.
So, a tie. A need to dress up. Completely at odds with his rather loose style of doing things. A stuffed shirt. Something that he abhorred with a passion. But duty calls; he needed that job as money was already wearing thin. No way around it, no siree, no way around it at all.
He opened his wardrobe, and peered into the pile of tie shreds. He hoped and wished that there was still a tie that he could wear and pass off decently, but he knew that there was never going to be one; the last one had been destroyed a good long time ago. Trying to prolong the inevitable, he dug around, and much to his chagrin and surprise, he found a perfectly good red tie which had fallen into a corner, hidden away behind the pile of tie fragments.
Sighing, he put it on and knotted it up, his suit already on. Suits, schuits. He hated suits; they made him feel so superfluous, so pretentious. But still, duty calls, and he needed the job. Dusting himself and doing some final adjustments, he made his way out of his apartment, and hailed a cab to take him to his interview place.
And so he arrived, and presented himself to the receptionist. Eyeing him with a rather critical eye, she directed him to the interviewer's room somewhere on the fifth floor of the tower. He thanked her, and made his way to the room on the fifth floor.
Knock knock.
``Come in!''
Somewhat apprehensively, he grabbed the door knob, opened the door, and entered. Before him was the interviewer, and between them was a simple desk and an empty seat.
``Take a seat.''
Trying hard not to shuffle, he stepped to the chair and sat down. The interviewer was still reading the dossier intently, and he sat there, feeling even more uncomfortable than before. He coughed.
She looked up sharply, saw the red tie, and promptly slapped him hard across the face. Stunned, he started to retort, but she yelled at him.
``You lousy faggot of a fucker! How dare you seduce my husband! That red tie was the one that I hand sewed for him; there is no other like that in the world! Get out! GET OUT!''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 27 Feb 2008 18:53:17)
It had to be that way. A suit. And a tie. He might not like the whole ``suited'' feel, but it was one of the requirements that he had to deal with. He had the suit, but he had no idea about the tie.
There was a long history between he and his ties. Each tie that he had ever owned was reduced to shreds for one reason or another; a most strange but utterly coincidental occurrence. At least, that was what he thought.
So, a tie. A need to dress up. Completely at odds with his rather loose style of doing things. A stuffed shirt. Something that he abhorred with a passion. But duty calls; he needed that job as money was already wearing thin. No way around it, no siree, no way around it at all.
He opened his wardrobe, and peered into the pile of tie shreds. He hoped and wished that there was still a tie that he could wear and pass off decently, but he knew that there was never going to be one; the last one had been destroyed a good long time ago. Trying to prolong the inevitable, he dug around, and much to his chagrin and surprise, he found a perfectly good red tie which had fallen into a corner, hidden away behind the pile of tie fragments.
Sighing, he put it on and knotted it up, his suit already on. Suits, schuits. He hated suits; they made him feel so superfluous, so pretentious. But still, duty calls, and he needed the job. Dusting himself and doing some final adjustments, he made his way out of his apartment, and hailed a cab to take him to his interview place.
And so he arrived, and presented himself to the receptionist. Eyeing him with a rather critical eye, she directed him to the interviewer's room somewhere on the fifth floor of the tower. He thanked her, and made his way to the room on the fifth floor.
Knock knock.
``Come in!''
Somewhat apprehensively, he grabbed the door knob, opened the door, and entered. Before him was the interviewer, and between them was a simple desk and an empty seat.
``Take a seat.''
Trying hard not to shuffle, he stepped to the chair and sat down. The interviewer was still reading the dossier intently, and he sat there, feeling even more uncomfortable than before. He coughed.
She looked up sharply, saw the red tie, and promptly slapped him hard across the face. Stunned, he started to retort, but she yelled at him.
``You lousy faggot of a fucker! How dare you seduce my husband! That red tie was the one that I hand sewed for him; there is no other like that in the world! Get out! GET OUT!''
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 27 Feb 2008 18:53:17)
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
The Gift
I knew that this year was a special year. The seventh anniversary that we first met, seven years since that special day when I first gathered the guts to ask her out. Seven years of tears, of joy, of pain, of pleasure, of sorrow and of happiness. Seven long years spread across two continents, separated by the vastness of the Pacific.
Seven years. That magic number. It had to be something special, something intimate, something that makes her feel so much closer to me. Over the years, I've come up with a lot of gift ideas, from flowers to chocolates, to cutesy obfuscated C code and even other geeky pranks which surprised and then please her.
But of course, this time it is different. It had to be more intimate. I didn't quite know what to get her, but as I lay there on my bed, looking at the ceiling and wondering deeply to myself, for some odd reason, one word came to mind.
A brassiere. Not any brassiere, but one of those silky soft oh-so-expensive ones from Victoria's Secret. Complete with matching panties of course. That would definitely titillate her and surprise her once more; who'd have thought that I would have the gall to buy such an intimate gift for her?
Nah. Sounds too kinky. But try as I might, I could not come up with a good reason why I shouldn't do this. And so making up my mind, I slept and waited for tomorrow to come.
I woke up, bright and early, and wondering why in the blazes I had to set myself up for such an impossible task. Everyone knows that the ladies who man the Victoria's Secret store are evil towards guys who shop there; I've heard plenty of scary stories where the guys who were shopping there for their significant others had been embarassed rather publicly about what they were doing.
I'd try my luck then. Thankfully, there was one that was rather far away, far enough that I don't think that I will run into people I know. I mean, I know I'm rather thick-skinned, but it is kind of hard trying to explain why a man was at Victoria's Secret shopping without sounding too suspicious.
So, I drove to the shop, and parked discreetly far away. I had brought along a nondescript brown paper bag, just to hide the tell-tale Victoria's Secret shopping bag. Standing in front of the store front, I mustered my courage and nonchalantly walked into the store.
Glancing around discreetly, I made my way to the rack which contained the silky, lacy lingerie and discreetly picked up a set which I thought was probably good enough for her. Thankfully, it was early enough that no one else was in the store, save for the cashier.
Somewhat apprehensively, I shuffled my way to the cashier and presented my purchase. Eyeing me with a somewhat amused look, she smiled at me.
``For a loved one?''
``Uh... yeah.''
``Awww... that's so sweet of you! Most guys won't even have the guts to step in here!''
``Uh... huh...''
``Here's your purchase, and have a nice day! I'm sure she'll be really pleased with your selection!'' She winked at me as she put the lingerie into a non-descript white bag as opposed to the pink-and-white striped one that they usually used.
``Don't worry, we have a policy of treating our customers with understanding and respect.'' And with that, she handed me the bag and bade me farewell.
So I stepped out of the store, and walked to my car, feeling somewhat relieved that I managed to make my purchase without embarassing myself.
Who said that folks weren't nice people?
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 25 Feb 2008 17:00:21)
[Ed: I swear that this was written in response to the topic of ``Write a story where a bra features in the story'']
Seven years. That magic number. It had to be something special, something intimate, something that makes her feel so much closer to me. Over the years, I've come up with a lot of gift ideas, from flowers to chocolates, to cutesy obfuscated C code and even other geeky pranks which surprised and then please her.
But of course, this time it is different. It had to be more intimate. I didn't quite know what to get her, but as I lay there on my bed, looking at the ceiling and wondering deeply to myself, for some odd reason, one word came to mind.
A brassiere. Not any brassiere, but one of those silky soft oh-so-expensive ones from Victoria's Secret. Complete with matching panties of course. That would definitely titillate her and surprise her once more; who'd have thought that I would have the gall to buy such an intimate gift for her?
Nah. Sounds too kinky. But try as I might, I could not come up with a good reason why I shouldn't do this. And so making up my mind, I slept and waited for tomorrow to come.
I woke up, bright and early, and wondering why in the blazes I had to set myself up for such an impossible task. Everyone knows that the ladies who man the Victoria's Secret store are evil towards guys who shop there; I've heard plenty of scary stories where the guys who were shopping there for their significant others had been embarassed rather publicly about what they were doing.
I'd try my luck then. Thankfully, there was one that was rather far away, far enough that I don't think that I will run into people I know. I mean, I know I'm rather thick-skinned, but it is kind of hard trying to explain why a man was at Victoria's Secret shopping without sounding too suspicious.
So, I drove to the shop, and parked discreetly far away. I had brought along a nondescript brown paper bag, just to hide the tell-tale Victoria's Secret shopping bag. Standing in front of the store front, I mustered my courage and nonchalantly walked into the store.
Glancing around discreetly, I made my way to the rack which contained the silky, lacy lingerie and discreetly picked up a set which I thought was probably good enough for her. Thankfully, it was early enough that no one else was in the store, save for the cashier.
Somewhat apprehensively, I shuffled my way to the cashier and presented my purchase. Eyeing me with a somewhat amused look, she smiled at me.
``For a loved one?''
``Uh... yeah.''
``Awww... that's so sweet of you! Most guys won't even have the guts to step in here!''
``Uh... huh...''
``Here's your purchase, and have a nice day! I'm sure she'll be really pleased with your selection!'' She winked at me as she put the lingerie into a non-descript white bag as opposed to the pink-and-white striped one that they usually used.
``Don't worry, we have a policy of treating our customers with understanding and respect.'' And with that, she handed me the bag and bade me farewell.
So I stepped out of the store, and walked to my car, feeling somewhat relieved that I managed to make my purchase without embarassing myself.
Who said that folks weren't nice people?
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 25 Feb 2008 17:00:21)
[Ed: I swear that this was written in response to the topic of ``Write a story where a bra features in the story'']
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