Working Girl

Huddled under my furry blanket on the parental sofa, sipping my coffee. In the kitchen, Mum is making dinner. The radio is on.
The Twitcher has sent a few messages since our date and I’ve replied to them, but the text banter has lost its lustre. He hasn’t forgotten me, so that’s something. Just want him to arrange another date.
Keep checking What’s App to see if there is a new message there from him but there isn’t. Must try to think about something else.

Am extremely very tired. Still suffering from my cold and just sleeping for about sixteen hours per day at the moment. The panther lies next to me on the sofa. He is cleaning his shoulder, rasping it with his tongue.

Dad is setting the table. The silver cutlery jangles together as he lifts it.

Am going to spend this weekend resting because on Monday I return to my office. It will be good to be useful and to do something that isn’t just experiencing my physical and mental complaints and writing about them.
“You won’t be able to do your job,” the panther says, breaking off from cleaning his glistening fur. “Look at you – you’re not capable of doing anything, slumped there in a heap. A particularly fat heap, it has to be said. And look at your hair: it’s probably illegal to have hair that bad in an office environment.”
A tear rolls down my cheek. “They’ll be pleased to see me at the office,” I say, without much conviction.
“They won’t,” the panther says. “But you have to make your own mistakes. Go to the office. They’ll send you home for being a nuisance.”
“Stop it,” I say. “I’m going to go to the office on Monday and do my job which I’m perfectly capable of doing. I’ve been doing it for long enough.”
The panther shrugs his shoulders and starts cleaning his front paws…

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