(Another throwback story, this one from a CardCaper Monday cycle. Enjoy!)
Allergies are a vicious circle—or do I mean cycle?—a Catch-22 of sneezes, watery eyes, and successive brain explosions that make it impossible to find the little pill you desperately need to help with the symptoms because you dropped it while you were sneezing.
Trust me. I know I’m a mess. I’ve just sneezed, so my cheeks are probably nearly as red as my nose, and I don’t want to look too closely at my desk in the direction of that sneeze, either. My pill is nowhere to be seen, but what can I do? There’s a cat in the office almost as often as the boss is in there: they’re not in today—boss or cat—but the dander is still there, doing a number on my sinuses.
Which means that when a short, adorable stranger comes through the door and leans against my desk to smile at me, his wiles do him absolutely no good. I can’t see him properly, for a start. Secondly, the delectable scent he’s wearing is barely detectable through my stuffy nose.
“I need to have a quick word with the boss,” he says.
“He’s unavailable.” Hasn’t shown up to work: but same difference around here.
Through watery eyes, I think I see his eyebrows rise. “Ah, not in. You’ll let me have a quick peep in there, won’t you? I just need to take back the book I loaned him.”
“No can do,” I say, blowing my nose. “No one is allowed in the boss’ office.”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” he says, perching on the edge of my desk and looking at me through his lashes.
Now he’s just annoying me. “I just sneezed there,” I tell him, tossing my used tissues into the bin.
The smile goes down a watt or two, but he doesn’t slide off the desk. Instead, he leans forward, invading my personal space. “Be a darling,” he says, eyes glittering at me through his lashes. “You can come in with me.”
The scent of him tickles my nose. Oh, what a shame, I think, in the brief moment I have to think coherently: I’m allergic to that lovely scent, too.
Then I sneeze all over him.
He goes absolutely rigid, eyes wide with surprise rather than outrage, and says eventually in a hushed sort of voice, “But I’m wearing my nicest perfume!”
“That’s nice,” I say. “I’m allergic.”
He blinks. “Oh. That makes sense. I didn’t think I was usually this resistible.”
“Why are you really trying to get into my boss’ office?”
“Two reasons,” he says. “First, your boss has been either criminally or unbelievably inept with his books—and given the fact that he’s vanished on the day I come calling, I’m guessing criminally.”
“Great,” I say. I mean, I knew he was a bad boss, but I’d just thought he was incompetent. This was going to be bad for me, especially since I was stuck in the office.
“Second,” he says, sliding off the desk at last. “I wanted to see how well you do your job. I’m from head office.”
He passes me his credentials, beaming, and I check them. They’re legit, which could mean I’m in trouble for not letting him in. Still, he doesn’t look like he’s annoyed: His eyes are still twinkling.
“Are you part of the furniture?” he asks.
It could sound bad to someone who doesn’t know I’m a genie, but I am technically a part of the furniture. “Yes,” I say.
“Which part?”
I don’t have to tell him that—anti-discrimination clauses in the contract, etc.—but I find myself saying, “Guess.”
He grins at me, an adorable three-pointed thing above his brown, pointy little beard.
“I think we’ll get along well,” he says. “If you do the same kind of job for me that you did for old El Gato, there won’t be a problem. Sneeze on all the people you want—I liked that. Very effective.”
Then he turns and trots away into the office, and for the briefest moment, I hear the distinct tap of hooves as he crosses the wooden threshold.
My own eyes widen. No wonder he’s so used to women doing what he asks them to do! I’ve gone from having a cat as a boss to having a goat.
I mean, it could be worse. At least I’m not allergic to goats.