La Petite Mort

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I want to die.

Bria held off on that thought and knocked again on the boss's door, but the lack of response from inside told her Angie had stepped out. A quick glance at her watch revealed it was almost half past two. Angie always took her lunch around eleven, which meant the woman had more going on this afternoon other than her usual BLT down at Cyril's Bar and Deli.

Sighing, she opened the door and entered. These new specs had to be delivered to Rassen Enterprises before five p.m. today. If Angie didn't make the deadline, she wouldn't be able to blame anyone but herself for the flub.

Bria snorted as she propped the disk against the woman's computer monitor. Oh, yeah. Let her say she couldn't find it this time!

Forget it, Bria, a little voice inside her head argued. If there's any way the woman can foist both her responsibilities and her subsequent fuck-ups on someone else, she will. And that someone is you, as you well know. She'll miss the deadline, like she has in the past, and will again in the future. And when she does, you'll become her whipping post all over again. Whipped, filleted, strung up, and left out to dry. Damn it.

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