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G.G.

I gasped jolting up from the fluffy pillow. I rested my back against the head board rubbing my forehead. After my breathing began to normalize I went into the kitchen fixing myself a fresh glass of tap water. I rehydrated my dry throat while switching on the TV. I skipped through the channels till I found one of my classic favorites, Weekend at Barneys. Nothing like a nice movie to cure bad nightmares, I fetched a Greek yogurt from the fridge. My program was disturbed by the sound heavy-metal rock and roll. Stepping out onto the balcony the freezing air was made less crude by the sight of dotted yellow lights, flashes twinkled across the tangled ribbon of streets. Factory workers were just getting off their late shift. Some people were punching in for overtime as feral young women explored the nightlife going shopping at 1:00 in the morning.

At the corner street, I spotted a mini pub, the source of the rock and roll. Wait, when the hell did that get there? A Pub, on Fifth Avenue playing loud music and disrupting residents, how could that have possible been approved? I sighed, swinging my hands in the air. No sleep. No peace. No peaceful sleep.


“Are you kidding me,” Sara uttered in amazement watching me gobble down the beef Taco. She was our Agency’s new intern as of last month and already she was dubbed nothing but a posh, overly perky ginger with an additional diva attitude. I bumped into her one unlucky afternoon and the rest was history she kept on my tail following me everywhere like a poodle just freed its leash. “That’s over two hundred calories of fat G.G. think twice if you value your fine figure.” Oh yeah, she also a critic when comes well everything: make-up, hair, clothes even your choice of lunch.

Wait, is she implying I’m chubby? Grrr… let it go Gina. My subconscious pleaded not to get her even more round up.

I swear. I’ll never get use her pestilent bickering. Sara Edwards, born and raised in the affluent new money family thanks to her father’s leap of success in venture capitalism with Wall Street stock exchange. According to her diary she takes pride letting the whole organization on, she wants an independent look on life whilst becoming twenty-three. So her connected father went through his links and introduce her somewhere suitable her social standing. And she apparently selected Lengua because her skill set was not much but a notably fluency in French. Yesterday in the cafeteria she brought a New York Times Weekly with her gathering everybody to show us her picture and below it publicly announcing her engagement to the French-American banker she was on the arm of at the prestige gala.

“This has been my eating habit for let’s see…as long as I can remember.”

Her jaw dropped.

“I don’t believe you, how do stay so fit?”

I wiped the chilly stained lips with a napkin.

“Ever try Pilates each morning you wake up?”

“Goodness no, I’m not savvy when it comes work-outs. I rather something sporty like tennis I have close to thirty tennis outfits.” I laughed internally. Of course, the horror of her to not be fashion ready for anything!

“Oh, can’t recommend it for you then,” I shrugged clearing away what’s left of my Taco.

“My Pierre adores my slender physique. I have to watch myself for him as well.” She mouthed sipping her diet coke.

“Who wants to see a disappointing look on their fiancée’s face on their wedding day?”

“I have to go wash up, throw that away for you.”

I pointed to the empty plastic container in front her. She had pack of rice cakes for lunch listed on Elle’s Top Best snacks to help you lose weight.

“You’re a doll, GG.”

I grabbed it from the table and scurried off before she could pester me any further. Pierre, Oh Mon Cherie Pierre that’s all I’ve listening to the whole goddamn week.

My ‘Cella Luna’ ringtone sounded. I smiled extremely content.

“Hi Daddy, how’s the Bahamas treating you?” I asked. My expert culinary chief of a father went on a personal mission of selfless fulfillment and teamed up the Peace Core. It’s been almost three years now he’s been in the Caribbean teaching cooking to at poorly funded schools.

“Hi Principessa, it’s close to eighty degrees but still agrees with me you won’t recognize me next time you see me I got a heck of tan.” I was glad to hear the cheerfulness in his voice. God knows I hated ever seeing him sad and heart-broken while he was in Manhattan.

“Does that mean you’re going be back soon?” I asked hoping desperately for a yes.

“I’m sorry, Cara, I signed on for another year I just enjoy doing all this. It’s something very meaningful to me at this point in my life. You understand don’t you?” How could I not? Even though I missed him tremendously it was a small price to pay for knowing he was recuperating after picking up the shattered pieces of a failed marriage.

“Don’t I always?” I mouthed hiding my dismay.

“That’s my girl, don’t worry as soon as I get a chance I’ll come see you, I promise. I have so many slides of the volunteer works I’ve done and I really want to show you.”

“I’d love to get a look at them. I hope you’re not teaching them how to make our special Gelato,” I told him defensively.

“Never, that’s our sacred recipe.”

“And don’t you forget it.” I chimed.

“I’ll call you in the meantime when able. How are things at work?”

“Their good the New York breezy weather, on the other hand. I could do without maybe I should fly down there and visit you. We could both soak up the tropical climate.”

“Just say when.” He chuckled. “I’ll talk to you later, Principessa.”

“Sure, Daddy, have a great day with your students!”

--

“Hi, Ms. Edwards, was that Ms. Castello leaving?” Alan the Agency’s errand boy rush to the table.

“Alan, good you’re here. Do you suppose you can collect a package for me?”

She instantly shifted to him soliciting a favor.

“Of course, Ms. Edwards, and can you inform Ms. Castello her assistant has to stay home today. She has a case of the cold.”

“No problema, Here’s the address.”

She scribbled on a piece of napkin and handed to him.

“Oh, would you also mind passing on a message for me?”

“Not at all, I’m an intern, dear, it’s part of my job,” she fished out her Smartphone selecting the notepad app.

“A Mr. Derek Jones wants to know if she’s free for an appointment next Friday at seven.”

“Derek Jones you say, I’m familiar with the name. He’s friends with my father; I met him at a party. He supposedly works for Forester Oil or is it ARGO,” Alan simply nodded his head and couldn’t help but blush watching the cute way her thin lined lips move rapidly. She was too engrossed in the constant chit-chatting about the history of her acquaintances to notice his inappropriate staring. She always failed to notice him noticing her. At that moment Alan was more than glad he did this favor for his cousin. He would carry heavy buckets of dirt up mile-high stairs if it meant Sara was at the end of it.

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