That was until she threw down a Draw Four card in Uno when my win was imminent.
It was our fifth match in a row, the best out of five winner awarded the privilege of picking dinner and the movie that night. So far, it was two to two and only because the first two matches dealt shit hands. The current round was going in my favor until she whipped out the card that ruined friendships and families.
She was triumphant in her maniacal move, smirking in her black tank top and orange pants, sitting cross-legged across the bed. I swore the woman had an endless supply of pajamas, wearing all the colors of the rainbow in the week and a half I was at her place.
It was so much different from mine, barely over eight-hundred feet. She kept it lively, each room bearing her kooky styling from the polka-dot armchair and yellow couch in the living room to the black and white zigzag area rug beneath her bed. I also discovered her gruesome bathmat, nearly having a stroke when the white rectangle bared bloody footprints when I stepped on it post-shower. Yeah, not the best thing to discover at five in the morning. At least Elena enjoyed my screech, though I swore her to secrecy.
She was healing well and set to return to work in the morning, though I could tell she wasn’t thrilled with the idea, and to be honest, I wasn’t either. It was nice not having to worry about her while I was at the office, knowing she was resting at home instead of stressing up a storm with Marty and Co.
The bastard hadn’t mentioned one word about her, and when asked in passing he shrugged. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t know I knew Elena had emailed him with an update. I couldn’t help but wonder what else he was hiding, not that it mattered. I was debating firing him outright before a replacement was found, even if it meant more work on my end.
Outside of the office, life was all about Elena, where I set up shop in her bed, a squeaky queen-sized thing I was more than ready to toss off her balcony. Luckily she didn’t seem to mind my occasional nightmare, waking me if I was thrashing, though I assured her it was all work-related.
In my time there, we played fun games like stuff-me-in-the-closet-because-Lee-showed-up to rush-me-out-to-the-car-because-Lee-is-coming, depending on the day.
It surprised me to fit in the tiny space, a cubby packed with more clothes than anyone needed, and was relieved when the redhead called in advance, so I could flee. My body couldn’t take being wedged in there for long, and alerting her by knocking something down would be way too easy with the paper-thin walls.
I also heard ranting and raving about Monica in my hiding spot, accelerating her termination on my end. The things Lee revealed were insane, from three-hour-long lunches to full-blown temper tantrums that put the one she had in my office to shame.
When I wasn’t hiding, we cuddled and watched too much television. No sex was involved either, and I was okay with it. I refused until her stitches healed, much to her dismay. Thoughts of them opening mid-thrust were more than a boner killer, regardless of how much she wiggled that perfect ass against me in the wee hours of the morning.
“How’s it feel to be out-finessed by a trauma patient?” she taunted, slapping down two Skips and a Draw Two just to rub it in before setting down a red five. “Uno.” She waved her last remaining card jubilantly, grinning ear to ear.
She was hellbent on pizza and a chick flick, and I wouldn’t spend another night up with heartburn without putting up a fight. She still had an iron stomach in her early thirties, but I crossed the darker hump of the decade where antacids and ibuprofen became best friends.
“Not so bad, Keebler,” I admitted. “It softens the blow when she’s cute.”
She grinned wider, looking almost normal despite the deep, jagged tear in her temple, the last bits of stitches holding on for dear life. Usually, the doctor would remove them after three to five days, but someone didn’t listen to doctor’s orders and needed them redone.
I returned fire with a Skip and a Draw Two of my own, finishing the streak with a yellow seven. I might have had more cards than her, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. All her offense did was supply more ammunition for her downfall.
She scowled. “Punk!”
“Just trying to keep up with the patient.”
She picked up two more cards, frowning as she reviewed them. While she kept me guessing in many ways, she had a terrible poker face in Uno. “You’re cruel,” she replied, flopping down a green seven.
“You haven’t seen anything yet!” I laughed, tossing a green two. “Uno!”
Her lips twisted as she studied her hand, and she threw down a Wild. “Blue.”
“You’re extra cute when you’re feisty.” I slapped down my blue six in victory.
“Dammit!” She dropped her hand in defeat, two blue cards fanning down.
She crossed her arms, heaving her breasts higher, the full mounds begging for attention. I averted my attention to Hank; the feline nestled against his owner’s thigh. I only had a few more days until she could be all mine again.
“So, what’s on the menu?” She gathered up cards, still sore with defeat.
“I was thinking winner-winner chicken dinner,” I teased, relieved not to spend another night chewing chalky tablets in agony.
“And that is...” she trailed, lips twisted.
“I stopped at the store, remember?”
I grabbed some staples on the way over, owing her many meals of apology. She hit me with the Uno challenge when I walked in the door, and I couldn’t say no to the smug look on her face. Luckily we hadn’t run too over schedule. Lemon basil chicken with spinach and brown rice wouldn’t take that long to make.
As expected, there was a knock at the door.
Her
