𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 (𝐁𝐖𝐖𝐌) .

1ღ

A/N: yo there's a link to a really good song and artist, SO YEAH, listen to it :D

"He hates me," I tell my coworker, holding my head in my hands. "You're being overdramatic, Monet."  Alecia says, patting my back. "You have a big workload, so what? Annoying supervisor, so what? At least you get paid more than 75% of us on this floor." I look up and squint my eyes her. "Go to hell." 

Getting up, I go to retrieve the thick stack of papers due for revisions at noon. I look down at the papers and see a pink sticky note slapped on top. "Revisions due @ Lunchtime! - Kyle" 

The lovely life of a lawyer. I went to law school and passed the bar exam to spell-check wtf?

Ever since I was young, I wanted to be a lawyer. I liked the thought of being a strong black woman fighting for justice and equality, while looking bad-ass. 

"A lawyer, huh," Baba retorts. "Why not a doctor?" The room fell silent until we both started bursting with laughter. Baba was my best friend. He knew me, before I knew me. Everything he did for me was out of sheer love. 

"Go for it, beldi zohreh (my flower)." And ever since the day of the high school career-fair, I fought towards my dream. 

3 years later, disaster strikes. 12th Grade, High School Graduation.

"Hello?" I asked on the phone, while searching for my family in the crowd. Smoothening my gown with my free-hand, attempting to calm my nerves.

"Is this Monet You-z-eff?" They respond, with the whitest accent you can imagine. I immediately code-switch. This could be my law internship!

"This is she, may I ask who this is?" A brief pause circulates in the phone call. An uneasy feeling starts to quell in my stomach.

"This is New York State Hospital, unfortunately, your father has fallen ill to an extreme. If you'd like to see him, please come as soon as possible."

My hand trembled, the wind knocked out of me. "Baba?" I say meekly and short of breath. 

"Who's Baba?" Kyle asks me, and I snap out of my funk. "Y'know Monet, good lawyers don't daydream. They get work done." I look at the floor. 

"My apologies, sir." I say, low in voice.

"Yeah, okay." He walks away, "You fucking imbecile." He murmurs, and goes on to bother other people in the workspace. I held my tongue and went on, slowly trotting back to my desk. Taking a look at the first page, I see a shit-ton of mistakes.

Who the fuck wrote this shit? A first grader?  I think to myself.

2 hours and 13 minutes later and I finish the whole thicc stack. Feeling like a bawse, I hype myself up in my head.

Who's the baddest bitch in this office? Moi, I am. 

I lowkey do a celebratory dance when I hear, "Yousif," from behind me.

Turning my head, I see Michael Harris. This nigga was FINER than anyone I've ever seen before. Today my friends, I will present to you the man on the secret menu:

A delectable 6'0", Michael staggers in height compared to all the women in the building (Other than my 5'8" ass...). Complemented with a sleek maroon suit, his skin is a glistening dark caramel color, a perfect appetizer to satiate your hunger. As an entre, our young nigga is rocking back length dreads and stylish glasses. Not enough? Dessert is a SEXY hazel eye color. I usually am not into lighter eye colors, but dayummmm! 

Unfortunately, he's married. Tough :/

"Oh, hey Michael," I said, keeping cool. "Did you need something?"

He walks closer to me and hands me a folder, "Can you head to the 65th floor? I just got down here and really don't want to go back up because-"

His wife and 3 side hoes are on this floor. At the same time.  I could tell he was going to make up some lame excuse, but just shrugged it off. I said he was fine, not innocent. 

"You don't need to explain yourself," I say pettily. "I'll take it."

"Lifesaver," he clasps his hands together. "I owe you one." And he runs off.

I start towards the elevator when Alecia walks up to me, "I know you weren't talking to Michael." I roll my eyes. "You saw what you saw. Don't get dumb with me." She scoffs as I push the button on the elevator. "Don't be the third side-bitch on this floor. He's only out there because shit's about to go dowwwwwn, Monet. Imagine how many are UPSTAIRS!" I shush her make her realize we're still at work.

Yawning, she asks, "Anyway, where are you going?" The doors to the elevator open. "65th floor," I respond, holding out a velvet colored file. "You coming?" 

Alecia hops into the elevator and I push the button for 65th, the administrative floor. "Y'know what, Monet? I realized something." I look to her, ready to hear some type of shenanigan.

"I wanna marry an Italian man." She looks at me, dead serious. After a couple seconds of trying to stifle my laughter, I can't contain it. "What the- where is this coming from?" I ask, still laughing. "I dunno, while I was briefing my supervisor on a case, I thought about that Olive Garden I ate last night, then I started thinking 'bout them grapes on the logo, then outta nowhere Italy." And I thought I always got distracted. "That doesn't explain why you want to marry an Italian." I rebut. 

"I was getting there," she says, "Then, outta nowhere, I had an epiphany. Italian love hits different." I chuckle, "Get the fuck out of here." Alecia makes my job 10 times more entertaining, just with weird stories like that. 

The doors to the 65th finally open, and I set the folder in the receive pile for the receptionist. 

"Merde! Laisse-moi choisir, bâtard." a voice yells. I look at Alecia and bop my head towards the elevator. "You can't ignore God's blessings, girl! I KNOW that's an Italian man. We'll wait and lurk." I sigh and stand next to her. It's not like I want to go back to work anyway. 

(Translation: Shit! Let me choose, bastard!)

Minutes pass by and Alecia and I have moved to couches near the conference room. Normally the curtains weren't down, so this was new. We sat far enough from the room to still hear the arguing in a foreign language.

A door to the room slams open, and a pair of chocolate eyes land on me.

"I want her."