Out of both of my places of employment, rather than the lovely, loungey bookstore with the comfy chairs and hours worth of guaranteed in-store entertainment, the Powers that Be decided to teleport me here. To the kabob stand.
The tiny.
Cramped.
Meat-laden.
Oil-coated.
Cumin-overdosed.
Kabob stand.
I'd say thank goodness for small mercies that
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Edensphere has luckily and rightly determined that my home is not my place of employment, so I am free if you would like anything brought to you. Perhaps something actually edible?
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Admittedly, I used to like kabobs, but dedicating blood sweat and tears to it three out of five days a week does put a definite damper on a person's craving for them. Then factor in the added insult of being forcibly joined at the hip to the grill for a day? The straw that broke the camel's back.
Can I possibly put in a request for a bubbly sugar beverage?
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There are many benefits to me, of which a lack of gainful employment is only the first, my dear. Another would be that I am entirely wiling to promise not to ride to your rescue unless you ask it of me. How does that sounds?
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Promising is one thing, Argent, but will you keep that promise? Perhaps society wherever you come from has trained you too well to be a perfect gentlemen, and all of us girls -- damsels or not -- will fall victim to your heroic efforts, whether they're requested or not.
[ a short pause ]
So, are there other people you are not riding to rescue at the moment? If not -- and if you're so inclined -- you can tell me how your love affair with cricket is turning out.
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How are things at the store? You managing okay?
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I hope your boss is at least giving you a break.
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I hope Holly arrives soon.
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