Love Cuts Like Broken Glass
Thankless romantic gestures and their consequences
My prematurely white hair notwithstanding, I was now the hunk that I always knew I could be.
When you have no job, you have time to spend 5 hours a day at the gym. Looking like a classical Greek sculpture was only a happy side effect of my efforts, though. I needed the practical aspects of my new body to scale a glass Manhattan office building.
A window-washer friend owed me a favor. A costume designer friend owned me another favor. When I put these two great tastes together, I got something better than a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. What I had was an idea for a super romantic gesture and the means to pull it off.
Why be bitter about Valentine’s Day, when you can use the theme as a premise to win back the one that got away?
Strangely, her boss wasn’t the first bank CEO that I sent to the hospital this year. Doing the same to my own employer is how I ended up with all that gym time on my hands. This time, though, the results were bittersweet, as I injured myself in the process.
My own bare flesh absorbed many of the stray shards when I flew through that thick glass and landed knee-first onto the already broken corporate thug. However, I was so exhilarated by my plan’s successful execution that I felt no physical pain.
My feeling of satisfaction faded quickly, as I caught the unimpressed look in her eyes. She sighed with embarrassment while accepting my rose and chocolate-filled heart out of pity. She didn’t speak to me, nor did she offer to help me untangle myself from my damaged harness.
The rest of the office folk eerily ignored me, not even bothering to call security. Instead, they gathered around their fallen commander, waiting for orders that would never come. He was their brain, and without him, they could feel neither compassion nor fear.
My artificial wings were in tatters, and I could not go out the way I came in. I would have to make my way through that cold, unfriendly building, wearing nothing but a red thong and my own blood.
On my way out of the office, I helped myself to an awe-inspiring painting of an alien being chased by dinosaurs, as well as a box of Flavor Donuts. The corporate drones probably didn’t appreciate the work of art anyway, although I’m sure they missed the donuts when they were gone.
More than these material prizes, my real consolation was that I finally saw the object of my longing for who she really was. This was her world, and I wanted no part of it. Except, of course, for the parts that I already mentioned taking (i.e., the painting and the donuts).
Author’s Note:
This story is a companion piece. You can find it’s counterpart here:
If you‘d like to read more of this weirdness, Subscribe to my mailing list.
And here’s my book series about a horny cat detective:
