I hate editors. I really do. They get on your case to finish, edit, and hand in your article on time, only to have them delay the actual print date, and therefore your paycheck. At least I could be thankful this assisngment was a definite, therefore getting me paid on time, but it was still a pain. The interview showed up a good two months after Affirmation hit the shelves. I shook my head in disgust, sighing. I could only hope Daniel didn't blame me for their hatchet job.
Between this and watching an old Rosie O'Donnell tape, plus the distraction of looking over my notes for another story I was working on (International Guitar miraculously liking my work enough to hire me as a full-time writer.), I hadn't noticed my roommate had come home.
"Turn that shit off!" he announced. He always greets me that warmly.
"Why?" I asked, peeking out of the corner of one eye. "Something that urgent on the Playboy channel?" I took the highliter out from behind my ear, searching for passages to outline in flourescent pink.
"That's very funny, Natasha. Are you watching Savage Garden again?"
"No, I'm watching Savage Garden again," I said, sticking out my tongue at him. We always have conversations like this. Such is life living with a perverted straight male. "Turn the video off and die." Scott finally gave up and sat down in the chair next to me, allowing me to retract back into my thoughts.
The morning following that night had been a delightful blur. Feeding each other breakfast in bed, followed by incredible three-way sex, three people taking the time to arouse and satiate one another. Holding each other, basking in the afterglow, still exploring and discovering even as we were floating earthbound.
And then an extreme annoyance called reality intervened. They had more interviews, and I had to get back to work. I did manage to turn it in on time, leaving it to the mercy of those above me.
As for the other article I was telling Daniel about...well, after returning to my desk, I reworked certain passages and sent it to Penthouse again. No doubt they'll reject it this time as well, being I mention nothing about vinyl-clad bimbos running around brandishing whips, but then there was always Playboy.
I looked back at the video. Darren and Rosie were discussing Anne Rice; Rosie waxed ecstatic over Tom Cruise. I rolled my eyes. Rosie could never have an interview with anyone without injecting Tom Cruise somehow.
"Does Darren ever shut up?" Scott snorted. I looked at him and started laughing. "What's so funny?" he asked in a huff. I could have told him the reason, but I knew he wouldn't believe me in an eternity.
"Nothing, nothing at all," I said, shaking my head in unseen irony. I threw the remote control at him. "Watch whatever you want; I've got a piece to finish."
"Well, thank you very much," he said, a small trace of sarcasm in his voice. As he made his way through the channels, I just smiled to myself and slipped back into a fantasy where Darren and Daniel would be waiting for me with leather collars and silk ties.