This is a response to a writing prompt in which the main character receives a text from her boss reminding her that there is a meeting in ten minutes. I’m supposed to describe why she’s late. Turns out my gal is really into food, especially apples.
Late for the Meeting
I was sitting at a table with my laptop, giving my attention to the guilty habit of reading fanfiction as I was about to absently bite into an apple. Some part of me was desperately hungry and anticipating lunch; another part of me was deeply engrossed in what this ‘internet person’ had written. It wasn’t always easy to root through the kinky, strange, and bizarre to find fanfiction that read as canon, and just as he was about to return and kiss her—
My phone buzzed. Being completely addicted to technology (and maybe waiting on a possible retweet from a celeb), I checked my iPhone, its glowing screen announcing itself through the wispy fabric of my poet’s sleeve. It was my editor.
Don’t forget. Meeting in ten minutes.
Checking my bag, I realized I had my pitch finished, bound, and ready to present. My stomach grumbled as the server delivered my other guilty pleasure: apple crisp. The dessert was served up with a dab of whipped cream. I thanked him and looked at the phone and then again at the dessert. It took about ten minutes just to walk back to the office, but I took it as a challenge. It was also pretty hot out and I didn’t always do well in the sun. I would have to make time.
Closing my laptop, I dug into the dessert. It was a glorious murder. Consuming the sugar, I felt guilty and empowered. That was exactly what I wanted to achieve during this meeting…feeling guilty for harboring the best kept script out there and empowered by the fact that it was the best. Closing my eyes, I eventually savored the last bit quickly. How did it even look, to other people? Like a Klingon and his gagh, or perhaps Denethor’s favorite meal? Hopefully they weren’t geeky enough to make the comparisons I would. I just wanted to get this done and move onto my next big project.
After gulping down some water, I texted a hasty ‘ok’ to my editor and began nomming the rest of the apple crisp. After I was done, I put the phone down and began an immediate check in the compact mirror: red hairband in place, raven locks, enough concealer already in place, and an appropriate application of rouge and lipstick. Not everyone dug the old-fashioned look. Some people thought of it as pinup. Whatever it was, it was me.
Leaving cash for the bill, I piled my phone and the apple and portfolio back into my purse and ran down the city street in red kitten heels.
Already two minutes late, I was in the elevator when I realized I was still hungry. I was confident and ready to pitch. When the door opened, I bit into the apple and—what a way to make an entrance. I remember stumbling out of the elevator like a drunk and the horrified look of my editor on her face, and some muscly fellow wearing Armani—yeah, definitely Armani—setting me down on the table and making a phone call…
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