Fictionlet
“Well, well, my dear old harpy, welcome home!” Greg chirped as Brigid elbowed her way through the door. “Here, let me take some of that,” he added, taking a few of the cardboard boxes weighing her down and scampering off into the apartment with them.
“Why are you so obnoxiously bouyant?” Brigid asked. “As if you need a reason.”
“I have a reason, and a good one!” he answered, stacking the boxes on the table next to her pile of papers that had grown from a small stack to a precarious tower in the past four days. “Funny Looks is burned onto the CD and plunked into the mailbox and winging its way to New York even as we speak. Two weeks ahead of schedule, no less! As they say in the donut business, slam dunk!”
“Well at least one of us was productive today,” muttered Brigid. “I’ve been in about sixty meetings since 8:30 this morning, and this damn proposal is supposed to be downtown no later than 11:00 tomorrow. One of these days I’m going to be given a proposal due in two weeks instead of two days, and I’ll probably keel over dead from the shock.”
“Well, that sucks. But Doctor Greg has the cure. Pack up your proposal in an old kit bag for an hour or two and I’ll take you out for a celebratory dinner, and then over to the coffee shop to get you caffienated up for your imminent all-nighter.”
Brigid narrowed her eyes at him. “You know, I’m sometimes wonder if Yvonne isn’t on to something about you.”
“Don’t get mushy on me now,” said Greg. “Or I’ll rescind the offer!”
-The Gneech
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