Writespiration #22 posted on February 4, 2015 Here’s my go – posted on Esther Newtons weekly writing challenge. I knew I didn’t like her as soon as I saw her. New girl or not, those permanently puckered lips were going to irritate me. From across the desk and before she even popped a sweet in her mouth I sensed her arm stretching for the packet. My skin prickled. Her pout ignited a warm tickle of rage from somewhere deep inside me. I flexed my fingers and slapped my keyboard in frustration. I didn’t care if it wasn’t the computers fault, she was about to suck and slurp at those bloody sweets. It was totally distracting, and more annoying no one else in the office seemed to notice. “Bitch,” I whispered under my breath. “You say something?” My manager asked. “No, no, talking to myself,” I replied through gritted teeth. I watched her arm waltz across the table in slow motion. I shot her the filthiest look I could muster. Of course, she was oblivious. She continued to shout obnoxiously down the phone to someone who was clearly an idiot. “No, Tom, no. Its not about broadband any more,” she chuckled leaning back in her chair and swinging an arm behind her head, “It’s about supercharged broadband,” she snorted a laugh out and threw her headpiece down abruptly hanging up on Tom. She bounced a sweet up and down in her hand for a moment, testing my patience, she threw it up once more and caught it in her mouth. She caught me looking at her and winked, clearly impressed at her own confectionary Olympics. I gave her a curt smile and turned back to my screen trying not to vomit indignation over the computer. “Arrogant bitch,” The harder I begged my ears to ignore her, the louder her incessant sweet torture became. She sucked, and slurped at the sugared pastel like it was trying to escape her open mouth. Your mouth should be a prison for each morsel, a final resting place for the edible. Not a paradise for opportunistic escape artists. Any convict in an orange jumpsuit with even a quarter of a brain cell could escape her jaws. My eyes darted furiously around the tables next to me. Why wasn’t anyone else looking at her? She was so loud. It just isn’t possible for anyone to work through the noise of his chamming. Her candyfloss coloured nails tiptoed across the table toward the eagerly awaiting sweets. “Hell. No,” I bellowed. It took a moment for the wave of unease accompanying the awkward silence in the office to hit me. I appeared to be on top of her desk, on all fours, a wild animal, fist clenching her packet of sweets. I took a moment of satisfaction from her lips puckering at the sight of me panting salivary rage in her face. “I…I just mean…” I desperately searched for a rational explanation for my behaviour. The anger dissipated to my now flame red cheeks, “it’s just, er, that’s my favourite colour, and you ought to share them round. Office tradition an all.” I climbed off the desk, and chucked the sweets on to the next table. She wouldn’t make it through probation.