Pink Slip Party Read Online Free

boxers.
    A toothbrush. A razor. A pair of boxers. A shirt.
    If I can figure out why he tired of these things, then maybe I’ll figure out why he tired of me.
    He used to call me a Live Wire. He used to say I was exciting, thrilling, sexy. He used to not let me even get into my apartment before he had his hands up my skirt. He couldn’t get enough of me. He’d call me every night, insist on seeing me, drink me up with his eyes.
    Now, I’m just one more thing that’s disposable. Like his toothbrush or razor.
    Part of me hopes he’ll call me for them. But I know better. He’s left things here he’s not attached to. He’s left things here he’s willing to lose. It’s like he planned a quick escape from the beginning.
    I realize that it’s over, and yet, I still haven’t stopped expecting him to call.
    “You’re better off without him,” Steph assures me on the phone.
    “I don’t feel better off,” I say.
    “For one thing, he’s got a funny walk.”
    “He does not,” I say.
    “He does. He sort of walks like a duck.”
    “He does not walk like a duck.”
    “Jane, you’re just in that ‘he’s perfect because I can’t have him’ stage. Trust me, he walks like a duck.”
    “I liked the way he walks,” I say.
    “In three more months it would’ve driven you crazy. You’d see him walking down the street, and you’d be thinking to yourself ‘why am I with a guy who walks like a duck?’ ”
    “I’m not that superficial,” I say.
    “It’s not being superficial, it’s being genetically practical. Do you want your kids to walk like ducks?”
    I sigh. There’s no arguing with Steph, especially when she’s off on a tangent.
    “So, what does that say about me if a guy who walks like a duck doesn’t want me?”
    “Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Steph says, exhaling loudly.
    “Tell me about it,” I say.
    “Can’t we just skip the part where you obsess about Mike and what you did to push him away when it’s obvious it has nothing to do with you because he’s the asshole?”
    “I wish we could,” I say. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to wallow a bit.”
    “OK, but just humor me, all right? Tell me one thing that doesn’t have anything to do with Mike.”
    I think about this for a moment. “I ran into Missy the system administrator at the unemployment office,” I say.
    “You mean the same Missy who is rumored to have stolen two laptops, a stapler, and an executive’s ergonomic chair?”
    “Really?” I exclaim. If I’d known of her Maximum Office terrorist activities, maybe I wouldn’t have been so eager to give her the brush-off.
    “Well, that’s the rumor. But you know how these things get started. She probably just took the stapler.”
    “She’s looking for a roommate, believe it or not,” I say. “Now can we talk more about Mike?”
    “No,” Steph says, emphatically. “Tell me what’s happening on The View.”
    Star Jones is having a shoe confession. She has too many of them apparently (as if anyone could ever have too many shoes — the mere thought is preposterous).
    “Star Jones says she has too many shoes,” I tell Steph.
    “Ridiculous!” Steph says. “That’s practically sacrilegious. You could do her job. Have you thought of applying?”
    “I’ve got oily skin,” I say. “They’d need my weight in powder to get the shine off my forehead.”
    Everyone on The View has very matte make-up. I’ve abandoned make-up temporarily. It doesn’t go with flannel pajamas. And it’s just something else I have to wash off at night, when I’m rinsing off the stink of failure. These days, showering in general has become a low priority. I don’t see the need, and I am secretly wondering how long it will take before I start smelling like a sophisticated European.
    “So what are you going to do today? Besides burning Mike’s likeness in effigy?”
    “I’m going to do something more constructive. I’m going to wish myself some rent money.”
    “Can you wish me