Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“This is preposterous,” she hissed. “Utterly preposterous. And for a reta…”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You will receive your last check via mail,” I snapped.
Ellen rolled her eyes and walked away.
When I turned around, it was to see Matilda there, arms wrapped around herself protectively, staring at me as if I’d just done something… wrong?
What the hell?
“You shouldn’t have fired her,” she said softly. “You’ll never find someone as competent.”
I snorted. “I’ll find someone. What I won’t find is a new you. So, though she was competent and could do the job adequately, I’d rather you stay in my life.”
“She didn’t lie,” she said. “I’m not normal.”
“How?” I asked. “Who is she to say you’re not normal?”
“How?” she laughed caustically, dropping her arms from around herself and throwing them out wide. “I’m a goddamn freak! Do you know how hard it is to stop myself from doing, or saying something, that’ll put me as the weirdo in peoples’ eyes? It’s a constant fight within my brain. It’s… horrible.”
“What do you want to do or say that makes you that different?” I asked. “Come on, enlighten me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Well, right now I want to call you a dumbass for firing someone that you didn’t have a replacement for. But other times? I want to spout off information that nobody needs to know, or asked for. Do you know how embarrassing it is to spout off facts just because you have a compulsion to? Or to tell someone you have a higher IQ than them, so that makes them genetically inferior? Not to mention, I can’t really gauge anyone’s emotions, so sometimes I inadvertently offend someone with knowledge that I have, and then they never want to talk to me again because I made them feel dumb.” She shook her head. “That’s even the tamest part of me. Other times, I’m touching them, or something that I shouldn’t be. Do you know what it’s like to have to touch a leaf for ten minutes straight? All because I have to process the feelings/shape/texture of it?”
She whirled around. “Like that fuckin’ pipe sticking out of the ground over there? It has all those bumps and ridges on it. The sight of it literally disgusts me, but I have to go touch it every single time I see it. For like two solid minutes.”
I snorted. “And?”
“And,” she continued with her anger, “sometimes, when someone talks to me, I take like a minute too long to respond. And they think I’m rude.”
“Why does it matter?” I asked. “I mean, more people should think about what they’re going to say before they say it.”
“That’s the thing. I think about it. Then decide to say what I want to say anyway. Whether it hurts someone’s feelings or not.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then there’s the times that I completely misunderstand someone’s sarcasm or jokes. And I get hellaciously anxious when I have to go into social situations that I can’t control.”
“That’s normal for anyone,” I countered.
“I lick or chew on stuff that shouldn’t be chewed on.” She narrowed her eyes. “Like, right now I want to bite that shirt you’re wearing because I feel like the texture will feel really weird on my teeth. And it’s a compulsion. I have to do it.”
I offered up my shirt. “Give it a try.”
She threw up her hands. “You’re just being obstinate.”
“You’re being whiney,” I said. “Do you want to go see my nephew with me today?”
She blinked. “I have to go to visit a sick horse, though it should only take a few minutes because I’m fairly sure he only has a light form of colic. But that’s beside the point. You don’t like me.”
I snorted. “I never, ever said that I didn’t like you. And if that’s all you have to do, how about you go do that? Or, even better, wait for me, we’ll go together. Then we’ll ride down there.”
“On your bike?” she asked.
I smirked. “What else would I drive?”
She thought hard about that for a few seconds before saying, “I’d love to go.” She hesitated. “But only if I really can bite your shirt.”
I looked at her for a long few seconds before saying, “Does the shirt need to stay on, or come off?”
She thought about it for a few seconds before saying, “Either? Off would be easier. Then I can show you what pissed Diana off about the cabinets.”
“Cabinets or trim?” I asked.
“Um,” she watched as I stripped my shirt off. “Both?”
I tossed the shirt to her, and she caught it before she instantly brought it to her mouth and bit it.
She did this funny scrunching, cringing thing with her shoulders.
Bit it again, then turned and started to walk toward the clinic.
With no one else on the job, I didn’t have to explain why I didn’t have my shirt on.