I decided to take a “sexually deviant corporate drone tricks hot goth assistant into spending time with him” approach to this writing prompt. I promise I’m not projecting. I just thought it would be a fun take on the prompt.
Prompt:
Two characters are stuck together in a locked room, and one of them knows something the other doesn’t.
Characters:
James Clark: Straightlaced, boring James. Wears jeans on Fridays and feels a little guilty about it. Brings an “I’ve got a spreadsheet for that” energy to the board room that middle managers love and people with souls detest. Harbors a deep, inner discontent for his life which only comes out in traffic and in bed at two in the morning. Shockingly sharp sense of humor. Hopes the new executive assistant is into skinny white guys with mild IBS. The author promises he’s not projecting.
Ramona Jones: The new executive assistant. Tattoos, dark hair, and a general disregard for authority. Weak attention span, weaker organization skills. Views calendars as more of a “helpful suggestion” than a commitment to be at a certain place at a certain time. Truly a terrible assistant, but she reminds the COO of his daughter, so looks like she’s sticking around until she gets bored. Wishes that skinny guy in the flare jeans would stop staring at her from across the office.
“James. Jaaaaames! Dipshit!”
“Huh? Oh, sorry. I’m listening.” James tried to look suitably apologetic. He had of course heard her the first time. He just liked it when she yelled at him.
“Great. Now stop staring at my tits and come help me open this fucking door.”
“I wasn’t staring!” Staring was such an inadequate term. You stared at a computer screen. You admired art.
Ramona rolled her eyes.
With a huff, she turned back towards the locked door and began pounding on it with small, tattooed fists. “HELLLOOOO! Can someone open this goddamn door, please? I’m stuck in here alone with bargain brand Patrick Bateman! Jesus, how the hell can nobody hear this?”
James shuffled down the aisle of spare computer hardware and discarded office furniture to join her at the door. “I dunno. Aren’t, like, half the people you support on this floor? Are they all out today, or are they just glad to have you out of the way for a while?”
Ramona stuck out her tongue at him. James pretended to be annoyed. It’s almost too easy. He idly wondered whether he could get her to spit on him before they got out of here.
“No, asshole. They’re in a meeting downstairs. I would have put you on the invite, but I didn’t think the meeting called for any whiny virgins with an Excel fetish.”
“Downstairs? Ah yes, the floor none of them work on. Great call.”
“Well, every room on this floor was busy.”
James mockingly put his ear to the locked door to listen to the silence radiating from the other side. “Clearly. It’s a madhouse out there. Are you sure you know how to use Outlook? Or did they not cover that in those three weeks you spent in Beauty School.”
In response, Ramona began pounding on the doors again. Damn. He really thought that would put her over the edge. Lucky door. He had naturally booked all the conference rooms on this floor weeks ago. James’ boss would say that his strategic planning was one of his most admirable attributes as an employee. Today, James was inclined to agree.
Ramona eventually gave up. She leaned her back against the door and slowly slid her body down its length until she was seated on the ground in front of it. She banged her head backwards and let out a pouty whimper. “How the fuck do you not have your cell phone with you.”
Because then I’d have to call somebody to get us out of here. “Because I’m not a slave to social media and blue light exposure. What about you? Do you even remember how to be alone with your thoughts for more than 30 seconds without looking at Instagram?”
“Some of us have lives, James. Interesting lives that other people want to see. If you had 5,000 Instagram followers instead of a 12-man fantasy football league, you might start using your phone for more than just jerking off.” She said the last bit with a quick shake of her wrist up and down. James eyed it longingly. “You’re sure you don’t know the damn passcode to this thing?”
“I already told you, I don’t.” He did. But it didn’t really matter. In about 5 minutes, his friend from IT was going to stumble in here looking for a replacement keyboard, and all would be right in Ramona’s world again. In the meantime, “Just try to appreciate the quality time this has allowed us to spend together. If we weren’t stuck here, I’d never have learned just how bad of an assistant you are.”
“And I’d never have learned just how fucking useless you are in a crisis.”
“And I’d never have learned that you’re such a raging bitch! See? Look at us.” Ramona smirked and then quickly hid her face in her hands. “Was that a smile? Careful Ramona.”
Ramona grabbed the unused doorstop lying next to her on the floor and threw it at him. If James were honest with himself, he could have easily stepped out of the way. As it was, it hit him square in the chest. That’s probably the most action I’m gonna get today. Fucking doorstop. If that wasn’t there, she might have thrown a shoe.
He glanced down at his watch. 3:05. That was…odd. Tristan should have been here five minutes ago. Did he get stuck helping that sales VP reset his password again? That could keep him well past five. “Nice arm, Jones. Any harder and-”
He cut off abruptly. No way. No fucking way. The fire alarm was blaring outside the door.
Well, this sucks.
The Existential Wannabe 