The Writer Finishes Her Talk

I wrinkled my nose at the sentence. “That wasn’t very carefully worded.”

“Nope – but seriously, he’s the complete epitome of scary bosses,” Emma said, quite earnestly. “He’s horrid! Especially if he doesn’t have coffee in the morning.”

”’You’ve been turned into a deliverer?”

Emma grunted, and then imitated a gruff voice. “You! Yeah, you, Milton!”

I laughed again at the mistake of her surname. Emma’s last name is Miller. She might be a good at phrasing, but she can’t stand up to John Milton.

“Get me a triple chocolate mint fudge machiatto with whipped cream, chocolate shavings and cookie sticks! Now!

“Does that even exist?” I asked into the phone, where I could hear Emma growling to herself about unfair bosses.

“Well, it certainly existed yesterday morning. I did three deliveries before I got the damn thing right,” Emma puffed, and I could hear footsteps.

”’Kay, AIDS , duty – more like dictator – calls! Keep your chin up.”

“Will do. Bye, Ems,” I said, and clicked the phone shut.

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