P.S. You're Intolerable (The Harder They Fall, #3)

by Julia Wolf

For the one-hundred-and-eleventh day, I arrived at the office at eight a.m., sat down at my desk, flipped open a notepad, and neatly wrote Elliot Levy’s schedule in black ink. And at the bottom, following the notation for his last meeting of the day, I included a postscript—which I’d been doing for a hundred and one days. Yesterday’s had been: P.S. Are you even human? The day before: P.S. You remind me of porridge. Today’s: P.S. You’re intolerable.

P.S. I’d rather give birth a hundred times than be in your presence. It was mean and most definitely overkill, but my grumpiness had reached nuclear levels. Insomnia was an absolute bitch. I’d know since I’d been dealing with it since childhood. If I got two or three hours of consecutive sleep, it was a good night.

To me, there was nothing beautiful about birth. The things that came out of my body had been truly shocking, and I’d been terrified out of my mind. But then, her.

P.S. You are the human equivalent of spilling a bag of freshly pumped milk.

P.S. Your cyborg is showing. P.S. I bet you sing Barry Manilow in the shower. P.S. You wear pleated khakis on the weekend. I just know it. It took me until the fourth strip to realize they were all exactly one inch wide and the paper matched the notebook. Son of a bitch.

P.S. Are you even human? P.S. Do you shower in your bathing suit? P.S. You’ve memorized the lyrics to every single Nickelback song, haven’t you? P.S. I would rather be trapped in an invisible box with a mime before hanging out with you. What the fuck? Understanding slammed into me like a Mack truck. These were directed at me. They had to be. Catherine had written her scathing opinion of me on the bottom of my daily schedules, then precisely cut them off and saved them in an envelope. There must have been over a hundred. One for each day she’d worked for me. Holy shit. That little…

P.S. Rocks have more emotions than you do. P.S. I hope both sides of your pillow are always warm. That was cruel. What could I have done that day to deserve such a terrible thing wished upon me? P.S. I’m jealous of the people who haven’t met you. P.S. I’d rather give birth a hundred times than be in your presence. My laughter died down, and I wondered if she still felt the same now.