My Boss ebook i audiobook

Copyright © 2025 Melissa Darwood

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

ISBN: 978-83-971455-0-4

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased) is intended or should be inferred.

www.melissadarwood.com

[email protected]

‘My Boss’ includes content that might not be suitable for some readers: explicit sex, nudity, swearing, foul language, alcohol use, smoking.

‘My Boss’ is also available as an audiobook.

‘My Boss’ is for You, dear readers.

Thank You for your motivation and the exciting pre-holiday time

that we spent together with (hard/stiff) Jan! :)

“Ms. Maria Gabara?”

I lift my head and encounter a pair of gray eyes—their cold stare measures me up and down. From the few wrinkles on his forehead and the stern expression on his face, I judge him to be around forty. A strong jaw, clean-shaven, neatly combed hair, hard gaze, firmly closed lips. Even though he stands a few feet away from me, I can smell his masculine fragrance—classic, powerful and elegant—the kind that makes my lower abdomen tingle.

I slide my eyes over the impeccably tailored gray suit that fits perfectly on his sturdy frame. No crease, no folds, no mismatch. Flawless—as if straight from the showroom. And to top it off, a white shirt, cufflinks, a stylish watch (an antique if my eyes are correct), a faultless black tie knot, tailored pants with a crisp crease, and shiny shoes. The guy is tall as an oak in a century-old forest, and even though I’m not short, I have to tilt my head to look into his eyes. There’s an air of distance and gravitas emanating from them, so that it’s almost intimidating to speak up. I guess that this is my new boss. He looks like a boss—he stands out from the crowd.

“That’s right. Mr. Jan Engler?”

All I hear is a grunt.

Well, I guess it was a ‘yes’.

“Very nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, but he doesn’t even look at it.

“You are to be at the office every morning at eight on the dot and not a minute later,” he declares firmly, adjusts his tie, and then walks away, apparently considering our conversation concluded.

No good morning, welcome to our company, here is your desk, here is your computer, have a nice job, kiss my ass…

What a jerk. Why the hell did he come up with such a ‘greeting’ when I wasn’t even a minute late today? After all, I was in the office by five to eight! Which is quite an achievement for me, given that I’m more of a night owl than an early bird.

A wonderful start to the day and the end of the year. Not only am I stressed about the career changes, but I apparently jumped from the frying pan into the fire. In my previous job in a small consulting firm, I was a finance clerk with no chance of a promotion or a raise. The boss was polite and tried to be nice (or at least gave the appearance of it). Here, on the other hand, at the start I got a 1,700 PLN raise, an independent position as a senior specialist and a medical care package. And everything would have been fucking perfect if it weren’t for the fact that right from the start, the boss treated me like I was just a lace on his elegant shoes. Supposedly necessary, but until it’s untied, no one pays any attention to it.

OK, no stress, no need to dramatize. Maybe he just had a bad hair day. It happens to everyone, and it’s just a shame that I was the target. I can only hope that my boss will not turn out to be a total boor.

But he turns out to be one. And on the first day. There is a reason why it is said that you can’t judge a book by its cover. My boss may attract attention with his gorgeous appearance, but his manner is off-putting. No introduction to work, zero explanations of what, where, how and when. Instead, dozens of messages in the mailbox and one sentence in the last eleven hours (yep, the prick immediately roped me into overtime!).

“I sent you an e-mail. It’s urgent.” His voice is gruff when he passes my desk. The jerk doesn’t even stop. He heads with a springy step toward the elevator, spreading an annoyingly masculine smell around. I want to ignore him, but I can’t. I involuntarily feel a strange arousal, and I’m mad at myself. Because firstly: older men don’t turn me on, and my boss is about ten years older than me. Secondly: I can’t stand such stiffs. Thirdly: he’s my supervisor, and it’s my first day at the company.

The sound of an incoming message rings in my ears. I open the mailbox.

Great, damn, it’s here. A dry-as-a-bone e-mail. Another one! Well, I won’t be able to get through all those attachments by my vacation.

Screw it. I need a break.

I head to the social room. I try to walk confidently, passing by new coworkers who are so absorbed in their work at the computers that they don’t pay attention to me. And it’s a good thing, too, because my gait is not exactly poised. I’m not used to a pencil skirt, jacket and stilettos. However, I had to make a good first impression and fit in with the company’s dress code, which I was told about during a conversation with an HR person. She made it clear to me that business attire was mandatory in the office, then handed me a bundle of cards with the rules and regulations, which I was supposed to sign along with the contract. I’ll be honest with you: I didn’t read what I signed. For how was I supposed to do that when the woman was sitting across from me, poking me with an impatient gaze saying, “Well, sign it already and get it over with; I still have a pile of work to do today.”

So, trying to look intelligent, I skimmed the text, as they do in legal shows, and with a sweeping motion, I scrawled my signature, hoping that I hadn’t just donated a kidney for a transplant. I may be great at counting, but reading is something I much prefer to do with novels than contracts.

“Excellent. Welcome aboard,” I heard as soon as I put down my pen.

“That’s all? It was fast.”

“Fast?” The HR woman looked at me, surprised. “But you went through a five-step recruitment process.”

Fact. They did put me through the wringer a bit.

“Well, yes, but I just did some tests, and the interview with you…”

“Did you expect anything more?”

“No, no. I just thought I was still waiting to talk to her—to my supervisor.”

“Him,” corrected the woman. “Mr. Engler does not conduct hiring interviews. He relies entirely on our department for recruitment. You passed very well the four initial stages of selection, for which I was responsible. I recommended you and sent to your superior the test results, and based on those, he made the decision to hire you as a senior finance specialist.”

“Test results? What about my experience, competences, personality… He doesn’t care about them?”

“He prefers facts, concrete data and figures. Assessing soft skills is our job. Do you have any more questions?”

Yes, how many coffee and cigarette breaks was I entitled to during the day?

*

When I cross the threshold of the social room, my gaze is immediately drawn to the coffee machine, where two girls are standing. I recognize them by sight; they have desks at the other end of the open space.

“Oh, hi, it’s your first day, right?” A short brunette with a round face presses a button on the machine. “I’m Agata. I’ve been under the rule of Stiff Jan for half a year.”

“Who?” I raise my eyebrows, at which the girls snort, laughing.

“Engler,” explains the other, also brunette, but slightly older, taller and slimmer. “I’m Olga. I’ve been working here for three years.”

She extends her hand to me.

“Maria,” I reply with a handshake. “Three years is quite a while.”

“Long enough to get used to. Congratulations on your position. You will now be the boss’s second-in-command. You must be really good since he chose you.”

“He chose the results of my test, not me. And somehow, I don’t seem to be his right hand. He doesn’t speak to me at all, just clogs up my inbox with e-mails every half hour.”

The girls glance at each other.

“Jan is peculiar; you will get used to it,” states Olga. “Previously, your position was taken by Jerzy. He was damn good, the boss relied on him a lot.”

“Then why is he no longer there?”

“He had a heart attack. He is now on disability.”

A heart attack? Well, it’s getting better and better. So now I wonder how long I’ll last here since my predecessor ended up on disability.

“He was well into his fifties and had been in treatment for a long time. Some atrial fibrillation or something,” reassures Olga. “Jan may be demanding, antisocial, and difficult to talk to, but at least he is easy on the eyes. Such a sight at work is pure pleasure.” She takes a sip of coffee, smirking slightly.

“Oh yes, it’s like a steamy wet dream,” Agata echoes her.

Pardon me, what? Okay, the guy may be handsome, but he doesn’t have an ounce of sex appeal. At first glance, you can see that he’s a passionless drone. I can bet my life—that sex with him is as passionate as watching the TV series Father Matthew, and the only subject who derives any pleasure from physical intercourse with Jan is the ugly pole hidden in his pants.

However, I’m not going to share my thoughts with my newly met coworkers. I don’t know them, I don’t know if they are checking me out by any chance. I’m not going to gossip about my supervisor on the very first day.

“Is there a chance that this e-mail bombardment will finally calm down?” —changing the subject.

“You’ll get used to it.” This sounds vague. “You have to look at the positives: good salary, benefits, benefits, good salary. Did I mention a good salary and benefits?”

“They must be damn good if you say so,” I conclude.

“Gym passes, pool passes, medical care, discretionary bonuses, team-building trips, subsidized lunches, low-interest loans, furloughs, layettes for newborns, vouchers, and Christmas packages for kids… Do you have kids?” Olga’s gaze focuses on my hand.

“Nope, still single.”

“Then take advantage of it while you can. After giving birth, I finally stopped feeling tired when the little one turned five. Take my word for it, taking care of a child is a completely different kind of fatigue: more tedious and infuriating. For the past two years, I had some peace and quiet until my son went to school, and I went along with him, as it were. His homework would drive me to neurosis.” She sighs heavily. “Okay, time to get back to work. Can you handle the coffee machine?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“If you need anything, let me know.”

“Actually… Where is the smoking room?”

The girls exchange glances.

“Didn’t you read the regulations?” asks Agata.

“Er… I did. But I was under stress. You know, signing a contract, paperwork… I must have missed something. Should I have been aware of something?”

“The company has an active health promotion policy,” explains Olga. “Anyway, you’ll see for yourself when you get the monthly newsletter. Healthy nutrition, active lifestyle, free from addictions, et cetera. You understand a healthy employee is a less expensive employee. If you want to grab a quick smoke, do it best in back of the building so that no one can see you.”

Just perfect.

The next few days are like a cold shower. I stay at work until seven, eight, and nine in the evening. I analyze overdue reports and statements and draft a plan for the upcoming weeks. In a word, I’m slogging, and I’m so exhausted that I don’t know who I am anymore.

My contact with my boss is limited to exchanging a few business-like utterances. We mostly communicate via e-mail because that’s what Jan wants. Occasionally he mumbles something under his breath as he walks past my desk, spreading the scent of his expensive cologne. I wonder if he doesn’t happen to have some problems with his speech box.

“Please don’t use emoticons in e-mails,” he grunts rudely, passing my station. He doesn’t even, damn him, stop and look in my direction.

Pompous jerk.

You say emojis, you halfwit. They are cute and sweet and should be called emojis, not EMOTICONS!

“Do you have any specific ones in mind?” I call out after him.

“All of them. Concentrate on the content. Emoticons knock you out of the rhythm, and I have no desire to read such messages.”

And I feel like knocking your teeth out, how about that? Then at least you’ll have a really serious reason not to smile, you fucking stuffed shirt.

I glance at the e-mail I was just about to send him.

To: Jan Engler

Subject: Report for Unirem

Good morning! :)

Attached, please find the report. I managed to finish it before the deadline, although I’ll admit that the analysis of the profitability of their new acoustic beacon investment has fried my brain and I think I’ll have to take a day off :P ;)

The topic is of little interest to me, but profitable for the customer. My analysis and preliminary data indicate that the innovative solution for low-power consumption, dust and water resistance of ecoLEDs, although costly, is cost-effective and highly competitive. I estimate the projected return on investment at one year and two months :D More information in the report itself.

Have a nice day :)

Maria

I sigh, delete all the smileys, rephrase the message and remove the final ‘have a nice day’. I don’t wish him a nice day at all. I wish that he gets diarrhea and expels the broomstick that’s obviously pushing from the inside against his anus. I don’t know why I thought that perhaps the relaxed tone of the message would bring some friendliness to my correspondence with Jan.

I was wrong. As of today, I’m not going to try to be nice to him anymore.

To: Jan Engler

Subject: Report for Unirem

You will find the report attached. I completed it ahead of schedule. The analysis and preliminary data indicate that the innovative solution for low-power consumption, dust resistance and water resistance of eco-LEDs, although costly, is cost-effective and highly competitive. I estimate the projected return on investment at one year and two months. For more information, see the report itself.

I plan to take the day off tomorrow.

Maria

I send the e-mail and get ready for a smoke. I decide that from now on, I’ll match Jan’s aloofness toward me. He’s my boss, I don’t need to have a warm relationship with him. I’m content with Olga and Agata, with whom I have enjoyable coffee conversations, as well as the people I spend cigarette breaks with.

I grab my jacket from the hanger, take the elevator down to the first floor and step outside. A gust of wind gives me goosebumps. At least it’s not snowing.

I go behind the elevator to hide from the cold and surveillance cameras, and see that the regular smokers are already there: Monika, Tom and…

Well, well, well, lookee here, and who is that? Quite a good-looking guy. I’m seeing him for the first time and I have to admit that he’s quite easy on the eyes. My type. Dark blond hair, lumberjack-like beard, cheerful amber eyes, a wide playful smile, worn-out jeans, leather jacket. He radiates positive energy, which I love in people, especially guys. The total opposite of Jan, who with his stiffness could even embarrass a corpse.

Jeez, why am I even thinking about him? After all, I’m on a break!

“How is this wonderful day going for you, finance girl?” Monika greets me in a sing-song tone.

“As usual. Boring.” I take a pack of stogies out of my pocket. “My boss is a rare case of a boor.”

“If I were your boss, I certainly wouldn’t let you get bored.” The newcomer walks up to me, fires up a silver lighter and extends it in my direction.

I lean over with a cigarette in my mouth, and when the white paper catches the flame, I raise my eyes and meet his playful gaze. Gosh, Newbie’s eyes up close really look amber.

“If you were my boss, I would quit right away.” I take a drag on my cigarette, then let the smoke rise.

“Really? Why?” He stares at me, smiling still.

“Good old fraternizing.”

I can see he doesn’t seem to get it.

“Because the company’s regulations forbid dating coworkers and supervisors,” I clarify.

Monika and Tom let out a prolonged “woo… !” sound and Newbie’s eyes sparkle. He extends his hand to me.

“I’m Karol. What are you doing tonight?”

“Maria.” I shake his hand. “Going to a Mexican place for dinner.”

“Cancel it.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t cancel something that hasn’t been booked yet.” I tilt my head, shooting him a provocative smile.

Karol laughs.

“Eight o’clock is OK with you?” he asks.

“Excellent.”

“Then we’re set.”

*

Dinner—a five. Drink at his house—a four. Sex—a three point two.

But, after all, one does not live by sex alone, right? Karol is funny, uncomplicated and likes to have fun. A twenty-eight-year-old boy, who plays PlayStation, eats dinners at his mother’s, pays the loan for the apartment, has a cleaning lady, doesn’t particularly care about his appearance and likes clubbing on Saturdays. It’s nothing serious, and that’s fine, that’s how it’s supposed to be. I’m not in a hurry to rush to the altar, God forbid. I don’t even think about children. Honestly, I’m not fit to be a mother. I think I’m too self-centered. My life is a mess, both professionally and personally. I have to put it in order first before I can even think about any stable relationships.

I’m four years out of college and, already in the first year of my career, I realized that choosing the ‘finance and banking’ major was one of the worst life decisions I made. All in all, I wasted nine years on something that totally doesn’t interest me. And although I’m damn good at what I do, I don’t get any satisfaction from my work.

Every morning when I stand in front of the mirror, I feel like giving myself a slap for betraying myself. But I have no choice. I have to somehow pay my rent and utilities, have money to live on and finally save enough cash to start my own business. I hate that after work I can’t find time to develop my passion. And so I wonder if this business idea of mine even makes sense. Because what sane person is going to wait three months to renovate an old ‘granny’ dresser they inherited when you can buy a new dresser for three hundred on the spot? So what if it will fall apart after a year; it’s nice, fashionable, and cheap. And the old ‘granny’ dresser is good only for the fucking trash.

Currently, I have to settle for what life has offered me. I shouldn’t complain. I have a well-paid job (with a fucked-up boss), great friends from my high school days (who have also been complaining lately about a lack of time), healthy parents (who think I’m a total screw-up) and a new boyfriend (who is convinced that when he comes, I come too)—but as I mentioned, one does not live by sex alone. The important thing is that I feel comfortable with Karol, I don’t have to tense up or worry that I’ll say or do something stupid because, in our relationship, he is the less intelligent one. We see each other twice a week, mostly on weekends. Not more often because for the past two months, which is since I started working in a fucking corporation, I’ve been running like a gerbil on a wheel for twelve hours a day. After leaving work, all I dream of is to numb myself with wine (and chips), de-stress with a movie (preferably a romantic comedy), then go to bed and get a decent night’s sleep (alone!). Sometimes, when Jan graciously allows me to leave the office before six, I meet with Karol in the city to grab a bite, go see a movie or go bowling, and then spend the night at his place.

“I don’t understand why you don’t want us to go in together,” says Karol after I let go of his hand as we get closer to the company.

“Because I don’t want to get fired for breaking the rules.”

“Just because we go in together doesn’t mean we are together. You’re not ashamed of me, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I already told you: I don’t want anyone to report us to my boss. He’ll think that every two hours I leave for a quick fuck with my boyfriend, who works two floors below. He has already pointed out to me anyway that I take too many breaks.”

“Then tell him the truth that you go for a smoke. My boss doesn’t mind that I smoke.”

“Because he smokes himself. Mine doesn’t.”

“Maybe he’ll understand—”

“He won’t. He’s like a dry piece of wood in the forest. He’s an ossified bore who’s fucked up about following the rules. I can bet that the craziest thing he has ever done in his life was to play a timed chess game. With a computer. Offline.”

*

Another day at the desk, another calculation, and to top it all off, the fucking air conditioner has a busted ass because it’s either breathing fire in my face or sending an icy blizzard down my back. I’ve already sent an e-mail report to Engler that the vent is bothering me, but he insists that he has passed the problem on to the technicians, who claim that the air conditioner is working properly. It sucks. I hate my job! I try to do my tasks diligently, on time so that the boss doesn’t have any objections. And in fact, he doesn’t have them, but I also never once heard a word of praise from him.

After making another report and sending it to his mailbox, I decide to catch my breath. This time, however, I don’t go out for a stogie because Jan is probably already starting to suspect something—he glares at me ominously every time I get up from my desk. So I stay in my seat and visit a website with “free giveaways” ads. I browse through dilapidated armchairs, chairs and tables that are just begging to be given a new life. Suddenly, my gaze is caught by a beige wing armchair. What a beauty! A classic Louis-style, stately, exquisite! I zoom in on the photo. Torn-up upholstery, armrests worn out. It will need a lot of work, but that shape, those legs! My God, I’m about to have an orgasm. I must have it, I must save it! What a bargain it is. I grab the phone and dial the number listed in the ad.

“Hello,” I hear a female voice on the other side.

“Good morning. I am calling about the armchair. Is it still available?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Great, when can I pick it up?”

“Right away would be the best. Several interested people have already called…”

OMG.

“What’s the address?”

“Piłsudskiego Street 23, apartment 35.”

I fly over the city map in my mind, and my heart beats as fast as if I were already running there. Today I’m without my Pandziak car again because once again its battery died.

Piłsudskiego… It’s not far; on foot, however, quite a distance. But I have a direct bus stop in front of the company.

“I will be there in thirty minutes.”

“OK, but it’s the fourth floor and no elevator…”

“No problem. Please do not give it to anyone. My name is Maria Gabara. I’m on my way now.”

I hang up, slam the lid of my laptop shut, throw my phone in my purse, jump off my chair, turn around and collide with something that smells disturbingly familiar.

“Where do you think you are going?” I hear a gruff voice.

I raise my eyes and meet the stern expression on my boss’s face. Instantly, I come back down to earth.

Shit! I’ve completely lost touch with reality. After all, I’m at fucking work, it’s noon and there’s no chance I’ll be able to get out of work even for an hour.

Unless…

“My mother isn’t feeling well. I have to go to her now.” I nervously adjust the purse on my shoulder.

“Mother?” Jan lifts his eyebrow.

“Yes, she’s old and…”

“Does she have four legs and beige upholstery?” Jan folds his arms across his chest, staring at me accusingly.

Umm… I swallow a glob of saliva.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you understand perfectly. And I do not tolerate lying. If you want to take care of personal matters, then do it after work. Besides, Piłsudskiego is under construction. You won’t get there in thirty minutes.”

I’m at a loss for words. Engler must have stood behind me long enough to figure out the situation. I feel stupid, but some inner stirring revolt doesn’t let me know I’m on the losing end. I choose to attack to defend myself.

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“I didn’t have to. You spoke so loudly that the whole room heard you.”

Instinctively, I tear my gaze away from him and look around the office. The employees momentarily lower their eyes to their laptops, pretend to look at the window, admire the lighting, the white walls.

I rub my forehead with my hand. I am in a real shithole. Not only am I going to lose the chair of my dreams, but I’ve also exposed myself to my boss by lying my ass off. And this is in front of half the department. Not good. The only sensible thing to do is to apologize, sit on my ass and return humbly to my desk job. But at the very thought of passing up the chance to gain a beautiful wing armchair, I want to howl. And since howling in front of Jan means the same thing as packing up my things and saying goodbye to my well-paid job, I choose a different tactic.

I smile as nicely as I can and speak in a fake voice:

“Just for an hour, boss.” I make sheep’s eyes at him. “This is really important.”

“This?” His cool gaze sweeps all over me.

“This chair. I do furniture restoration as a hobby, and this wonder is just begging to be restored. Can I leave? I’ll be back before you know it.”

Jan takes a hard look at me. He is silent. I search for any sign of understanding on his face… And just when I think I see a glimmer of favor in his steel eyes, his cell phone rings. He frowns and shakes his head.

“Please go back to work.” His answer is dispassionate.

He turns around, takes the phone out of his pocket and answers it, walking away toward his office.

Unfuckingbelievable! Oh, no. I’ll not let go so easily.

“But Mr. Engler… ” I’m following him, actually running, because the dickhead has legs as long as stilts. I know it’s impolite to interrupt a phone call, but I’m secretly hoping that he will agree to my request, just to get rid of me. “Please wait… ” I pass him and stop, blocking his way.

Jan pauses. He wrinkles his forehead, then shifts his gaze over me as if I had just dropped the balance sheet of our most important customer into a pile of cow dung.

“I’ll call you right back,” he says into the receiver, hangs up and puts the phone in his pants pocket.

“Can you really not let me go even for a little while? After all, I stay after hours each day anyway…”

I’m answered by silence. A bloody deafening silence. It’s so penetrating, rumbling that it’s about to bust my eardrums. Only the silence of someone like Jan can drown it out. I don’t need a third eye in the back of my head to figure out that everyone’s gaze is now on us. I get the impression the space-time continuum has frozen in a motionless vacuum.

Jan looks straight into my eyes. Piercingly, paralyzingly, penetratingly. I can’t read any emotion from the expression on his face, although the throbbing vein on his neck just above the collar of his snow-white shirt is unlikely to bode well. I can feel a drop of sweat running down my back. Shit, I guess this idea of interrupting his conversation wasn’t as brilliant as I thought, after all. I nervously adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder. I’m getting hotter and hotter. I must finally speak up because this silence, combined with the icy gaze of the Night King from Game of Thrones, is about to kill me.

“Why don’t you say anything?”

Jan squints his eyes and, still looking at me, adjusts his tie (it’s probably some kind of compulsion because he does it about two hundred times a day).

“I am thinking.”

OMG! So there is some chance after all. Bravo, Maria. You see, he who doesn’t risk doesn’t drink…

“Find Spendimex’s reports from the last merger. They didn’t declare their intention to merge, and they’re facing an inspection from the Office of Competition and Consumer Protection. I have to have them in an hour,” he adds coolly, after which he simply bypasses me.

What a cold bastard!

I boil all over. I’m about to tell him what I think of him. Seriously. Here. Now. In front of everyone. Without considering the consequences.

“You don’t have a shred of feeling,” I hiss angrily, seeing him move away. “And please do something about this air conditioner because it’s clearly broken. It’s going to make me shrivel up or I’ll get pneumonia!” I call out after him.

But the bastard won’t even stop, won’t even turn to look in my direction. He only replies in a dispassionate voice:

“Go back to work, Maria.”

Grrrr…

This much is already certain: the devil himself gave Jan Engler the genes to make him look like a seducer, while under the skin lurks a slimy, nasty, unfeeling reptile. A grass snake. A boa constrictor. A rattlesnake. Shoo!

I turn on my heel. My gaze involuntarily drifts over the employees of the department. Some smirk, others look at me with pity, some with sympathy…

And what the fuck are you guys staring at? I, at least, had the courage to confront my boss face to face, meanwhile each of you shakes your ass in front of him, even when applying for leave.

I throw my purse on the desk, pull out my cell phone, then, in a fury, I go to the bathroom, putting together a contingency plan. I’ll cheat the system!

I lock myself in the stall and dial Toska’s number.

“Hi, sunshine!” My friend’s cheerful greeting, which should put me in a positive mood, only agitates me further. After all, she makes me realize that other people have cool enough jobs to keep them in a good mood during the day.

“The fucking bossobot doesn’t want to let me leave the office. I need your help.”

“Bossobot?”

“A boss and a robot in one. A man-machine without a heart!”

“What happened?”

“I found a beautiful armchair that can be restored. For free, to be picked up right now. And this… This…” I’m so emotional that my voice gets stuck in my throat. “This egotist, this bloated buffoon, riff-raff narcissist won’t let me leave the office. I beg you, Tosia, tell me that you can manage to drive up to Piłsudskiego now and pick up this chair.”

“No problem. I’ve just finished work, and I’m leaving school. What is the exact address?”

OMG, how wonderful!

I give my friend the street and apartment number. I am on cloud nine… I feel like squealing and jumping for joy. And suddenly, I remember that the apartment is on the fourth floor. My optimism goes out like a blown-out match. Damn, after all, Toska is pregnant! I should finally start living in reality, but somehow, I’m not up to it. Despite the years gone by, I still see Tosia as a crazy teenager with red hair and a nose piercing. Meanwhile, Antonia Tkaczyk has been a psychologist in one of the better high schools in the city for four years, has a husband who is a developer, lives in a beautiful house near the city and is expecting a baby.

“Tosia, forget it. The armchair has to be carried down from the fourth floor. I’ll call Nina,” I add in a resigned voice.

“Didn’t Nina go to Barcelona for some symposium for anesthesiologists?”

DAMN!!! Of course, she left.

“Then how about Artur?” I suggest.

“He has been on duty at the clinic since two p.m. He said he was neutering a Labrador today.”

I can only manage to squeeze an agonized moan of disappointment out my throat.

“He should neuter my boss rather than a poor dog.” I lean my forehead against the wall of the stall and make a mental survey of people who could help me. The truth is, however, that in my almost thirty years of life, I have made only three real friends I can count on: Toska, Nina and Artie. I have a father, mother, brother and sister-in-law, but they are about as helpful as a lifeboat in the desert…

But wait, wait, after all, I still have a boyfriend! Why didn’t I think of him right away?

“Tosia, I’ll call Karol, he has a less fucked up boss than me. Talk to you later.” I hang up and a moment later I hear him huffing and puffing in the receiver.

“Maria? Is something wrong?” he asks, surprised and, in fact, it’s not at all surprising. I never call him at this hour.

“I have to pick up an armchair, and my stiff boss doesn’t want to let me out of work. Can you manage to pop out for an hour? Piłsudskiego 23, Apartment 35.”

“Gee, not so much. I’m busy,” he replies, and at the same moment, there is a muffled girlish giggle in the receiver, accompanied by a sound like the creaking of a bed.

I tense up in a second. I’m not one of those suspicious people, but these particular noises don’t seem normal when you call your boyfriend in the middle of the day.

“Where are you?” I decide to ask directly.

“What do you mean where? At work.”

“Where exactly?” I ask because Karol works in Marketing and Sales, which employs twelve other men and not a single woman.

“At my desk. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I just got the impression that you were out of the office. I heard a woman laughing…”

Silence.

“Karol?”

“It was Andrew’s wife. She stopped by with the cake. It’s his nameday today.”

“Whose, the wife’s?”

“No, Andrew’s.”

“It’s February. Isn’t St. Andrew’s day in November?”

“Really?” His laughter sounds nervous. “Maybe he is celebrating his birthday after all…” He sounds hesitant. “Listen, I’ll try to see you in half an hour. I’ll run upstairs for five minutes and give you a relaxation massage?”

I rub my forehead. I’m all tense. And apparently, I’m getting paranoid since I’m suspecting poor Karol of God knows what, when he’s working like a good boy two floors below. All because of fucking Jan.

“No. Don’t come. You don’t have to. It’s just that damn Engler threw me out of balance. I need to cool down.”

“OK. Take care. I’ll see you tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I may have a lot of work to do. An inspection from the tax office is getting ready to go to the customer’s place.”

“OK, call if you need me. We’ll go out and then go to my place.”

“Sure thing. Take care. Bye.”

I hang up, put the phone in my suit pocket, pick up the toilet cover and pee. I feel so powerless I want to cry. If only I found this ad three hours earlier. I could have used the lunch break I wasted on stuffing myself with pastries and gossiping with Agata and Olga in the social room.

Jesus, what a shame. That wing armchair is so beautiful.

“Fucking Jan. What a stiff bastard. Jesus, how I hate him.” I growl under my breath, wipe myself, flush the water, open the stall door and…

Oh, fuck.

A few feet in front of me, right by the sinks, I see Engler, who is washing his hands as if nothing ever happened. I notice his bent face in the reflection of the mirror and immediately duck back into the stall. Maybe he didn’t see me and will leave any time now?

But wait a minute! What the hell is he doing in the ladies’ room? I hope he didn’t hear me call him a stiff bastard. Jesus…

“Have you found the documents I asked for yet?” A firm voice carries through the bathroom.

So, he saw me. Shit, what a fucked-up day. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then another.

Okay, I’m going.

I walk up to the sink confidently and press the soap dispenser.

“Please don’t get offended, but using a restroom designated for the opposite sex is inappropriate, to say the least. Don’t you think so?” I cast a scolding glance at him in the mirror.

“I am of a similar opinion.” Jan reaches for a paper towel and wipes his hands carefully. They are strong, masculine, with clearly defined vein lines and a bit of black hairs peeking out from under the white cuff of his shirt.

A seemingly trivial activity—wiping hands. Meanwhile, not knowing why, I’m looking at it with evident interest. This jerk has damn neat fingers. The kind whose touch can make you shiver. Especially when they glide up the bare skin of my thighs, tilting back my underwear, dipping between the hot folds, rubbing against the moist spot…

My heart rate speeds up, I feel a tingling in the bottom of my abdomen.

Jesus, what am I doing! I’m having some fucked up visions. After all, this is Stiff Jan! My rude boss!

“What are you actually doing here?”

“I should ask you the same question.” He throws the towel in the trash and points with his head to the wall on the right.

I follow his gaze and freeze. I notice three hanging urinals on the big, brown, shiny tiles.

In a split second, a red light goes off in my brain. Damn it! I’ve mixed up the toilets!

I turn around, embarrassed, seeing my reflection in the mirror—my eyes are as big as the drains in the aforementioned urinals, my mouth is gaping, and my cheeks are pink like a country milkmaid’s. Bravo, Maria, you retard!

Well, no, this is not really happening. I’m about to go down in flames with shame.

“There is a meeting with Spendimex in fifty minutes.” Jan adjusts his tie in front of the mirror. “Get to work and prepare the documents I asked for. You have half an hour.” He shifts his gaze to me, sweeping me from head to toe. His face mellows a bit, a strange gleam appears in his eyes, but only for a moment. Before I can blink, his features become sharp and inaccessible again. “You should adjust it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your skirt has rolled up.” He turns around and walks out of the bathroom.

“What?” I glance down, but everything is fine with it. I look at my reflection in the mirror from behind and… Holy shit, half of my ass is showing!

I pull the fabric down quickly; my cheeks are burning. No, no, no. Out of embarrassment, I’m about to drown in the toilet from which I emerged with a rolled-up skirt.

Jesus Christ… Could this day get any worse?

Sure, it can.

Immediately after leaving the bathroom, I call the woman from the ad. And I find out that literally a moment ago she gave my beloved wing armchair to some gofer. To no avail are my explanations that we had an agreement that she was supposed to wait for me. The silly bat says that she was convinced that I had sent someone to fetch the chair, and besides, she doesn’t want to bother with it anymore because she has more important things to do, after which she rudely hangs up.

People are full of it!!!

I sit down at my desk, full of fury like a bull in the arena and glance at my watch. I have less than fifteen minutes left to prepare documents for Engler. I search through the folders, copy all the files to a flash drive, and let the most important ones go to print to give to Jan for review. As if to spite me, the frigging printer decides to act up, squealing like a hungry pig seeing pigswill. It has run out of black ink, and I no longer have time to report to the supply department that it needs a new toner.

I hastily changed the font color in the documents to navy blue, hoping that the piece of crap would print the reports in this hue. It prints, but, damn it, in pink!

I’m about to kill myself.

“What are you doing?” I hear Jan’s voice behind me.

“Printing the documents you requested.” I arrange the sheets in an even pile.

“And this? What is this?” Engler takes one of the sheets of paper the printer has just spit out in his hand and grimaces.

“The documents you asked for,” I repeat, trying to keep myself in check.

Jan catches my gaze and looks me straight in the eyes. He is neither angry, nor confused, nor amused (although this one should not surprise me, after all, this dour never smiles). I can’t read any emotion from the expression on his face that I can relate to. I feel insecure, and at the same time remain ready to fend off a possible attack. Totally unhinged. I can’t stand this type, it will be the end of me on this job. I’m not suitable for this kind of work—under stress, in a hurry, needed yesterday, right now, like a machine. Without any thank you, good job, keep it up…

“Maria. What is it?” he repeats the question in a low voice.

I clench my teeth. I feel like rolling up the piece of paper and answering in the same poised tone as he did: “This is a kaleidoscope. I’ve painted your black-and-white world pink, say thank you nicely or leave me alone and kiss my ass. Goodbye.”

But common sense prevails.

“The ink has run out,” I announce.

“What?”

What’s your problem, jerk?!

“The printer ran out of ink and I had to change the font color.”

“You could have sent the file to the department’s printer.”

Unfortunately… He’s right. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Okay. I’ll do it right away.”

Jan pulls up the cuff of his shirt and glances at his chic (and, to my eye, damn expensive) watch. I haven’t seen him wearing it before. How many does he have?

“There is no more time for that. Please take what you have. You will read everything to me in the car.”

Eeeek… What will I do? Where?

“I’m to go with you?”

Jan doesn’t answer, just looks at me with those gray frosted eyes of his that seem to say, “And which part of the sentence, You will read everything to me in the car, didn’t you get?” after which he walks away without saying a word.

Jackass.

“I’ll just put the printouts in my briefcase. I’ll join you in the parking lot downstairs,” I add, and in response, I hear only a grunt.

Engler walks to the coat pegs at the end of the hallway, puts on his coat and heads for the elevator.

Christ, what a strange creature he is. He could at least say, “Sure, see you later,” like a normal person. But he didn’t… Grumpy growler.

My screwed-up boss is tangible proof that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. The fact that he looks like fucking James Bond in that damn suit and unbuttoned coat doesn’t change the fact that he still remains a stiff Jan—a grim sonofabitch.

Just as I step out into the underground parking lot, I hear the sound of an engine starting up. I look around the rows of cars and notice the headlights of one of them on.

A big beast, with tinted side windows, probably expensive as hell, with the BMW X4 badge on the back. Well, yes, a fitting car for his ego. I walk up to the SUV, open the door and pack myself inside. Instantly I’m enveloped by the elegant interior, the masculine scent and the proximity of my boss, whose sturdy, exuding self-confidence posture seems to fill the entire space.

“I’m here,” I sound like a fool because, after all, he can see that.

“Do you have everything I asked for?”

“I do.”

“Please start with the balance sheets of the last five years in an antichronologicalorder.” The car starts rolling out of the parking lot.

“There is no need for this. The year before the merger is enough.”

“Apparently you did not understand, so I will say it again. The customer has an audit for failure to report… ”

“I understood perfectly,” I interrupt him mid-sentence. “And the audit is unfounded. Spendimex had no obligation to report the merger. Their turnover in the year before the merger with Viramo and Kodo was forty-nine million, seven hundred and twenty-eight thousand euros. The notification obligation for Polish companies, on the other hand, occurs when turnover is above fifty million euros.”

Engler glances at me out of the corner of his eye. I think I surprised him.

“Please take out the printout with the turnover total.”

“We do not have an aggregate document. Each month is separate.”

He frowns.

“Then how do you know what the turnover was for the whole year if you just printed the files?”

“I counted in the elevator.”

The car slows down, there is the sound of the turn signal being turned on, and we pull over to the side of the road. Engler pulls the handbrake, switches on the emergency lights and turns toward me.

“Maria, perhaps I did not make myself clear enough,” he begins in a serious tone.“Our customer has committed a serious breach of the rules, and he expects us to provide professional assistance and a thorough approach, not calculating on the fly amounts that are in the millions of euros.”

“Not on the fly but standing up, in the elevator.” I open the folder, pull out the printouts of the last twelve months preceding the merger and hand them to Jan. “If you don’t believe me, check for yourself.”

His nostrils flare, but his expression remains unwavering. A true Stoic.

“Maria. These are neither the conditions nor the time for such calculations. Analyzing such data is hours of work in Excel, not four minutes of pasting amounts into a calculator on your phone, which you apparently did while riding the elevator from the thirty-third floor to minus one.”

“I didn’t use a calculator. I did it in my head.”

His eyebrows shoot up high. He definitely thinks I’m out of my mind. And since I much prefer to be perceived as a freak (something I’d grown accustomed to in school) rather than as a person missing a few folds under her skull, I add with a smile, “Tell me any two complex numbers above one hundred thousand.”

“Pardon?”

“You don’t believe me that I calculated the annual turnover correctly in four minutes, without using Excel. So please propose any two numbers and I’ll give you the result of their addition. If I make a mistake, you have the right to dismiss me. If, on the other hand, the result is correct, you will apologize to me, give me a discretionary bonus for the month, and do something about that broken air conditioner above my desk, which is supposedly in working order.”

The expression on Jan’s face—priceless. He looks as if he has just realized that he has hired a madwoman. He keeps staring at me. He thinks. Either he’s going to throw me the hell out of the car right now, or…

He reaches into his pants pocket for his phone, types something on the screen, and while I can’t read any emotion from his face, I’m sure he’s just sending a text message to the head of the HR department with instructions to prepare a termination notice for Maria Gabara.

I’m feeling a hot flash coming. Well, it’s game over. And why did you stick your neck out, you moron? What for?

“Seven hundred and eight thousand nine hundred and twenty-one plus eight hundred and thirty-nine thousand and ninety-six.” Jan’s voice rings out unexpectedly.

My jaw drops because, damn, he surprised me. But not so much that my mind doesn’t automatically switch to a logical track. My brain sends a signal in a split second—a string of numbers appears before my eyes, which I utter in one exhale:

“One million five hundred forty-eight thousand seventeen.”

Jan squints.

“Add three hundred and twenty-seven thousand four hundred and fifty-three.” He throws the number at me, his thumbs moving efficiently across the phone screen.

I smile under my breath.

“One million eight hundred and seventy-five thousand four hundred and seventy,” I answer without hesitation.

Engler glances at the display, at me, then types something on the phone, pronouncing more numbers:

“Add three million nine hundred seventy-three thousand nine hundred sixty-eight.”

Oh, you doubting Thomas. I roll my eyes and answer without letting my breath out, “Five million eight hundred and forty-nine thousand four hundred and thirty-eight.” I tilt my head and look at the boss. “We can drag this out to googol. I don’t mind, but by any chance were you in a hurry to see a customer?”

Jan raises his eyes from the phone. He has the Excel #ARG! written all over his face. I can see from him that he can’t rationally explain what’s going on. Hahaha. That got him hooked. This is the first time I’ve seen such a look on his face. And I’ll be damned, that look is worth the five million I got from adding up in the last minute.

He puts his cell phone in the holder on the windshield, glances in the rear-view mirror, releases the brake, switches off the hazard lights, turns on the blinker, starts the car and, after driving some twenty meters, makes a U-turn in the middle of the road.

“Yyyy… Did you forget something from the office?”

Instead of responding, he utters a voice command to connect with the customer.

Over a Bluetooth connection, a male voice sounds in the speakers,

“Good morning. We’re just getting ready for the meeting and…”

“The meeting is not necessary,” Jan says with perfect control of his voice. “An inspection from the OCCP is unwarranted. Your accountant should review the turnover for the year preceding the merger once more and correspond with the Authority accordingly. The result did not exceed fifty million euros.”

“Are you sure?” You can hear the surprise in the caller’s voice.

“I am sure.” Jan’s firm reply makes me feel butterflies in my stomach.

“Okay, we’ll check it out right away.”

Jan hangs up.

I look at his reserved expression and feel as damn appreciated as ever. I may have given him irrefutable proof that my mathematical calculation skills are above average, but after all, he didn’t have to blindly believe that I had calculated Spendimex’s turnover correctly. And yet, he believed.

Silence falls in the car. I have no idea what I should say now. I think I’m shocked that Jan canceled the meeting and…

“You are free to go.” The car stops.

I feel clobbered. Wait a minute. Is he firing me? Or was it a question about whether I’m free? I swallow my saliva as my mouth dries up.

“Excuse me?”

“You have finished your work for today.” Jan points with his head to the windshield. I follow his gaze and realize that we are in front of my apartment building.

Wow! How the hell does he know my address?

What do you mean from where, you smartie? From your file. You are, after all, his subordinate, prompts my logic.

Which I am, but that doesn’t explain the fact that Jan has brought me near the house itself; on top of that, he gives me the rest of the day off, when I usually leave work at six in the evening at the earliest.

I glance at him surprised. Did he get a fever or what? I observe his sharp profile: his skin tone is normal, he doesn’t sweat, he doesn’t seem ill. He looks as usual—aloof and perfect. He is typing something on his smartphone—focused, absent-minded.

“Thank you… That’s nice of you,” I say quietly, as my voice gets stuck in my throat.

Jan shifts his gaze to me. Our gazes meet.

“It is as you wished. The bonus will appear in your account tomorrow, I will take care of the matter with the air conditioner and I say I am sorry,” he announces briefly, matter-of-factly, concretely, and puts the phone down on the dashboard.

I say I am sorry? Oh, Mother of God, that’s the weakest apology I’ve ever heard. Nevertheless, I’m about to fall off my seat (even though I’m already sitting down). I freeze although I’m hot as hell. Is this seat heated? Jan apologized to me. In his stiff way, but I still have to pick myself up off the floor. And actually, from the floor mat under my feet, which, by the way, is so pristine that if I dropped my (non-existing) dentures on it, I wouldn’t even have to wash it to put back into my mouth.

But, well, after several months of working with Jan, a squeaky-clean car mat should not surprise me at all. Engler is undeniably a clean guy—always a snow-white shirt, impeccably pressed suit, neat tie, shoes shined, perfectly shaved face, combed hair, evenly trimmed nails. His office has all right angles: the binders on the shelves are lined up and a desk looks like a surgery table—totally spick-and-span. The Sarantis Poland company should put my boss’s picture on the packaging of microfiber cleaning cloths like a Jan Niezbędny. Oh yes, Engler is a pedant in the whole sense of the word, and so painfully economical with words that one wonders if speaking is something bad, superfluous and socially incorrect…

The silence between us becomes more acute with each passing second. It makes me uneasy. But apparently, I’m the only one who has a problem with it because my boss just sits there, looking me in the eye with that cool look of his, still the same reserved and unemotional Jan. I’m searching for some clever words, but my head is as empty as the parking lot of a shopping mall at night. I would gladly take the opportunity to be quizzed again on addition in the range of a trillion. How is it that I easily establish interpersonal relations with almost every person I meet, but I can’t for the hell of it exchange a few sentences with my own boss?

If you can’t, don’t talk, Maria.

“In that case, thank you for the ride. Eight o’clock tomorrow?” I ask, hoping against hope that maybe I have impressed Engler enough today to agree to flexible working hours? That would be just the thing.

“At eight,” he replies in the same breath.

Well. Maybe I worded the question wrong.

“Could we agree on nine? I stay after hours anyway.”

“At eight sharp, Maria.”

Hmmm. Well, yes. But at least I tried.

“That’s a shame. Nine is much better than eight. It’s my favorite number because it always stands up for itself.”

Jan frowns.

“I don’t understand.”

“The sum of the numbers formed by multiplying any number by nine always gives nine,” I hasten to explain. “For example, nine times two is eighteen, and one plus eight, you know, gives nine. Or nine times thirteen is one hundred and seventeen, and one plus one plus seven is also nine. What size shoe do you wear?”

“Excuse me?”

“Shoe number. Forty-five, six?” I’m trying to guess.

“Forty-six,” he replies, clearly perplexed.

“So forty-six times nine is four hundred and fourteen. Four plus one plus four is nine. You were born in nineteen eighty-one, correct?”

I know he was because this is the date on the company’s website.

He just nods.

“So one thousand nine hundred and eighty-one multiplied by nine is… ” I give myself a second. I close my eyelids, feel the familiar pulsing above my eyebrows, a string of digits appears in front of my eyes, they fly by, circle around, merge into pairs. I try to instinctively put them in order, until finally, each one jumps into its place. “Seventeen thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine. That is, one plus seven plus eight plus two plus nine makes twenty-seven, and two plus seven is nine,” I finish with an exhale, smile with satisfaction and wink at my boss. “Have a good afternoon.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door and get out proud as a peacock with the hope that I have left my boss with a face that says, “Holy shit, she’s a walking calculator.”

Well, I am. So what if I have to be at work tomorrow at damn eight in the morning?

*

As soon as I walk up to the apartment door, I hear a neighbor greeting me from across the street. I have two neighbors on the floor. One is Makowski—a divorcee, a quiet alcoholic who has a crazy cat. The other is Ala—a charming woman in her seventies, although she looks as if she were in her fifties. She practices yoga every morning, does Nordic walking twice a week, and plays bridge on Saturdays with three friends. They are loud like teenagers let loose after being grounded at home.

“Maria, something has arrived for you!” she calls out as I turn the key in the lock. “It’s beautiful, but it’s in my way. Come and help.” She disappears into the corridor of her small apartment.

I walk up to the door, which is wide open. Intrigued, I look inside and almost fall on the floor.

I shit you not! The WING ARMCHAIR!

My heart jumps for joy and starts thumping. God, I can’t believe it!!!

“Are you feeling well?” Ala glances at me, suddenly alert.

“Well? I’m about to go crazy with joy!” I throw the documents and my purse on the floor and reach for the armchair. I embrace it as if I’ve found a dog someone stole from in front of a store. It may not smell very good but screw it. It’s beautiful, it’s delightful, it’s mine. But by what miracle?

“Where did you get it from? I thought it was lost.” I don’t take my eyes off the chair. I stroke the curve of its backrest, the worn upholstery… I must look like I’ve lost my mind because Ala answers, a little uncertainly, “A man brought it in an hour ago. He knocked and asked if he could leave it with me until your return so no one would take it.”

“A man?” I look at her. “What kind of man?”

“A courier. He did not introduce himself. A stocky, bald young man. He asked me to sign for the receipt… I thought I was doing the right thing,” she adds, obviously nervous.

“Yes, yes. You did very well,” I assure her. “And was there a name, a company name, anything on the receipt?”

“Actually, I don’t know, child. I didn’t even have time to put on my glasses. I just signed, and he carried the chair into the hallway.”

“I see.” I look at her, and I’m bothered by the fact that she let a strange man into the apartment so easily. “Thank you very much, but in the future, please ask first who is the person you are allowing to enter your place, okay? You hear so much about elderly people being robbed… ”

Ala dismisses it with a wave of the hand.

“And what could he supposedly steal from me, Maria? Soviet-era crystals, an amber necklace, or maybe a rusty wedding ring?” She snorts. “I’m not stupid. I keep my cash in the bank,”—she leans toward me and lowers her voice—“and in my dresser, I have pepper spray and an alarm siren in case someone wants to rip off a poor retiree.” She winks at me.

I smile because the old lady, for her age, is really resourceful. I have been her neighbor for five years, and I can barely count on the fingers of one hand the situations when she needed my help: to carry her rug up to the beater, to hang the curtains (when she threw her back out), or to do the shopping when she had a cold and it was freezing outside. She is the most undemanding person I have ever met in my life. She has been a widow for twenty years. Her son and grandchildren live in Norway, and although it’s not far, they only see one another once a year at Christmas. It’s clear that Ala enjoys their happiness, but she has let me know more than once that she breathes a sigh of relief when they return home after Christmas because she can finally get on with her life. God grant me in my old age to be as self-reliant and resourceful as she is.

*