“I can still see her, like a picture in my brain,” Jerry muttered, half to himself and half to his cube mate, fellow drone, and drinking buddy for the three day weekend.
“Shhh,” came the reply from Geils, “is the office still spinning?”
“You and Jagermeister.”
“I said shhh.”
Obligingly, Jerry kept quiet, finding stillness, or as much as three days’ worth of hangover would allow. His muscles felt jittery, and his stomach continually threatened upheaval. Through the fog of his chemically injured brain, the image appeared all the same, cool, clear, and pleasant, a moment frozen in time. Red lipstick amidst a flawless face of porcelein danced before his inner eye.
“Yelson and Geils, you twits!” burst a shrill voice through the bubble of romantic reverie. The sight to welcome his rapidly opened eyes couldn’t have been further from Jerry’s nightclub goddess. The portly face spat, “The Cranston file. Entered by lunch. Or else!”
Geils pried his eyes open and muttered as she left, “Hellhound—tha’s what she is.”