Maybe this was a stupid plan.
This was the thought at the forefront of Sandy’s mind as she climbed the stairs to the train platform. This and her desire to peel off the green cardigan buttoned tight over her breasts. It was a warm summer morning, and the humidity made the fibers stick to her armpits and the small of her back. It itched. The other commuters in tank tops and sundresses looked at her askance, as if she were crazy, or possibly incredibly stupid. But Sandy could not take her sweater off, as she was wearing nothing underneath.
“Why don’t you just ask for a raise?” suggested Beckah, a lifelong friend of Sandy’s and, conveniently, a burlesque dancer who performed under the stage name Sassy O’Shea.
“I’ve done everything I can! I’m at the office early every day, I stay late, I dress professionally, I work quickly and efficiently, I take on extra tasks—”
“Right. So just point that out to him and he’s bound to give you a raise.”
“The point is that he should have noticed already. I need to make him notice me.”
“Are you sure this is the best way? You do realize he might fire you for a stunt like this.”
“Are you saying I can’t be seductive?”
“No! I just—”
“Are you saying my boobs are unimpressive?”
“You have great boobs, Sandy.”
“Then teach me how to reveal them in a sexy way. And how to shimmy-shake them.”
Beckah sighed in resignation. “Whatever you want.”
Now, weeks later, on the very day she had scheduled a meeting with her boss, Sandy was shivering with trepidation. Suppose she couldn’t unbutton the buttons? Her hands were sweaty; it could happen. Suppose her shimmy wasn’t defined enough? It had taken her hours practicing in the mirror to get it right. What if he just didn’t like it? What if he was gay?
How was your Tuesday night? Mine was full of meeting Neil Gaiman. I told him I was starting my fiction MFA at UNLV in August, and he gave me some writing advice. Because he's awesome. He also signed this for me:
So, you know...basically amazing.