Never-Say-Diet

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A cracked view of office relationships and self deprivation.

Submitted: August 12, 2016

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Submitted: August 12, 2016

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He was sitting there with the most pleasant smile and blue eyes you could get lost in. His suit was casual but his shoes were expensive. Socks and tie were silk and his hair was a dark brown with the classiest touch of gray. On the round breakroom table beside him was a large pink box.

Sylvia hadn’t always been fat, and there was a time when she felt she was even pretty but there wasn’t anybody left at Gruber Smick Fassbender & Associates LLC that had been working there long enough to remember her when she wasn’t FAT.

‘These people didn’t know the real me.’ she thought as she reached the breakroom door.

Sylvia’s workouts have paid off lately. She’s noticed an increase in stamina and overall body strength, which came in handy when she tossed three smokers off the roof on their break.

She stood there in the doorway, moisture dripping off her brow. Soaked through her exercise sweats and breathing a little heavy, she took another hit from her inhaler and smiled at him.

In a room that usually smelt like burnt coffee and stale farts, he sat under the harsh florescent lighting and looked beautiful.

Behind Sylvia was an office full of corpses. She had a hell of an afternoon workout. This morning she remembered to bring her walking shoes because it was “Walk around the block Wednesday” with the girls from Accounting, but by lunch she had changed her mind. Sylvia went to the company’s events room and chose a softball bat instead. After she beat her co-workers to death she headed to the roof for a cool down and a majestic view of the city. After she tossed the smokers from the roof she remembered she had a green salad with chunks of lean chicken breasts and diet Wishbone Italian dressing in the breakroom fridge. Sylvia felt a little shaky. Diets always put her on edge.

After stepping off the elevator and through what used to be her boss’s brains, Sylvia wiped her feet on his secretary’s skirt (‘The only dry spot on the bitch.’ she thought) and zigzagged her way through the bodies and shabby Herman Miller cubicles to the breakroom.

He had raised the lid a little. Teasing her. The warm pastry smell made it’s way through her brain. She felt her resolve dissolve.

His eyes never left hers.

“Is there an Old Fashioned Glazed?” she asked giddily

“But of course.” the Devil replied.  

 


© Copyright 2017 R.Guy Barringer. All rights reserved.

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