Excerpt: Uncensored (Chapter Two)

CHAPTER TWO          


The ‘big day’ is finally here, after what had been a mostly sleepless night and tumultuous early morning. But as it turns out, much to my dismay—and surprise, I guess—my first day on the job isn't particularly eventful. Nothing at all like I expected, actually, but I'm still hoping it'll get better as the day goes on. I end up getting yet another cup of coffee for my boss, who is a short bald man by the name of Timothy. He smells like cheap aftershave and mouthwash well into the day.
It really didn't take long for me to find out that it isn't actually mouthwash that gives him his funky, spirit smell, but vodka that he somehow keeps sneaking into those perfectly poured mugs of Colombian ground that he keeps asking for every hour, on the hour.          "Rosalind," he calls for me yet again, from his desk. "Rosalind, I need you to go and get me a batch of reports from downstairs."          "Sure, no problem," I obediently reply.          I walk down the long hallway that leads to the elevator, lined with offices that have floor to ceiling windows looking over the city and beautifully etched ones that faced the hallway. A few of them have their blinds drawn so that no one can see in. I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in those offices.
I let my imagination get the better of me, as I always tend to do, and think about all of the things that are hiding behind these blinds, of all the acts that are being done just feet away from me as I scurry down the corridor. Maybe there are a few of them that actually have people doing business behind them.
On the other hand, it’s quite possible that there’s also a hiked up skirt and a pair of unzipped trousers behind at least one of those guarded windows, with heavy breaths that are exhaled just quietly enough to be blocked by the door. I’m willing to bet that this building has seen plenty of bared thighs and eager hands over its years.          I step into the elevator and push the button, but just before the doors have a chance to close, a woman races up and quickly presses her arm between them. She stumbles in after she practically pries the sliding doors open, carrying a stack of paperwork in one hand and fixing her hair with the other as soon as she manages to get inside.
We both stand there quietly for a moment, until she breaks the silence.          She seems to be about the same age as me, and is wearing expensive looking heels that also look uncomfortable. There's a little run in her pantyhose, that she seemingly tried to cover up with clear nail polish. I can tell by the way she carries herself and how she looks that she's a full-timer here. She doesn't have that intern 'newness' about her, and she exudes a sort of nonthreatening confidence.          "Are you new here?" she asks.          "Yeah," I say as I turn to face her. "It's my first day. My boss sent me downstairs to pick up some reports."          "I thought so. I didn't recognize you. I definitely would have remembered that hair of yours," she says, smiling. "It's gorgeous. Are you a natural redhead?"          
I nod and give her a polite smile, returning the gesture. People always comment about my hair, so I almost expected her to say something about it. It's a deep red color that really does look like something straight out of a bottle, I have to admit.
I have my mother to thank for it. Her hair was nearly the same shade once, until it started turning gray. Rather than try and dye it back to its normal color though, she simply let it be. So, now there's only a few strands here and there that remind her of the scarlet locks that she once adored.
And, oh, did she ever adore her hair. I can remember, when I was much younger, she would sit there every night at the edge of her bed and brush her wavy, vibrant red hair for what seemed like forever. She was so proud of the fact that I had inherited it from her, and not the chestnut brown color my dad used to have before he turned gray, too.
Despite the pride she takes in my hair, there have been times when it was obvious she got a bit jealous of it, especially right around the time her color started to fade significantly. Even now, she still continues to make remarks about how I should do more with it, or that it looks dry and that I should take better care of it.          "Well, you're lucky," the woman adds, bringing me out of my thoughts. She points to her head with her free hand and playfully rolls her eyes. "I'm stuck with this boring brown color that I have to highlight every other month. I've been thinking about just giving up though and just dying it all a completely different color. How do you think I would look as a redhead?"          "I don't know," I answer with a shrug, a bit unsure if she should be asking a complete stranger for cosmetic advice. I'm unsure of what to tell her, andI think that she can tell she's making me a little uncomfortable with her random chatting and questions, because she switches the topic rather quickly as we both got off the elevator and walk down yet another hallway.                    "I'm Cathy, by the way," she says.          "Rosalind," I return. "But everyone usually calls me Reaux."          "It's nice to meet you then, Reaux. I'm sure you'll do really well here." She stops just in front of an office and pulls at my arm gently to bring my ear closer to her. "Whatever you do, just stay away from Zack. He's this creep up in accounting who likes to hit on all of the girls and do a bunch of completely inappropriate things. He gets away with it though, because he's related to one of the big high-ups. He grabbed my ass once in the hall and I know that he even tried to feel up Stacy, the girl that's in the office next to mine."          I give her a look of mild disbelief and shock. "And he just gets away with fondling everyone?"          Cathy nods and stepped inside the office door. "If you ever want to talk or anything, you know where to find me," she says. "Oh, and you'll probably need to head over to that office to get your reports. That's generally where they keep all of the paperwork for your department," she adds, pointing to a door on our far left.          I thank her and make my way over to the door she'd pointed at. There's a man sitting at the desk inside who hands me what I need once I tell him my boss' name. He doesn't bother to look up at me or say a word. He just continues to focus on the report that he was busily filling out when I came in after he hands everything over.          As I walked back down the corridor and return to my floor in the elevator, I think about how strange this place is, and how much different it is from what I had expected it to be. I don't quite know how I had pictured it was going to be, but I guess that I had assumed that I would actually be doing something more important than fetching folders and making coffee for my new drunkard boss.