Vicariously Yours,

Greasily Yours

It was Sunday and Isabella was roaming around her office. On a Sunday.

It's not like she had anywhere to go. She had no friends as such. She was content being single. Her only light or state of being happy was her work place.

So here she was, cleaning the receptionist desk. Arranging the calendar, telephone, books of appointments neatly piled up in an organized manner.

When she went into a cleaning spree, her mind was devoid of anything. It was blank and sometimes she was grateful. Other times, not so much.

Right now, a lot of things ran through her mind. She often though of life in general. What was her purpose and more importantly, who she was. Isn't that weird? Being old enough she still hasn't figured out who she was.

She knew why she was good at her job. She knew why she was doing this job. Oh, like she would ever forget that. It was imprinted on her forehead every day when she gets up in the morning and sees herself in the mirror.

She tried not to think of her past. It was done. There was only moving forward but often she feels like going through the flow or motions is never enough. She needed to have some meaning. Besides her work.

She can't work for the rest of her life. She wanted a personal life. Where she had a boyfriend and maybe a cute pet. Should she get a goldfish? But she'd probably forget to feed it.

A boyfriend? Don't they need to be fed regularly? Too much drama and work but if she wanted that personal life, she should make a step towards it.

As she wiped the shiny wooden desk the third time, the front door jingled open. Her head jerked up to see the similar shiny bald head from over the desk.

"Marcelo? What are you doing here?"

He wore a black polo shirt which was tightly tucked into some black sport shorts. Legs strong and muscular lengthened down to his bright orange trainers. Isabella tried not to drool.

His lips curved in a smirk. "Why did I have a feeling you had no plans?" He had in one hand a large plastic bag. Imprinted on it was the name of her favorite sushi place.

She got up hastily, dusting her jeans. As she rounded the desk, she folded her arms across her chest. "This is ridiculous. What are you doing here?"

Marcelo held up the packet, hustling it. "Brought you food. I know it's my favorite."

He was so close to saying it's our favorite and if he had, he'd sounded like those dudes in some corny cheek movie.

Ignoring her shocked outraged face, he maneuvered around her. Not before noticing her casual outfit.

Nice blue jeans that hugged her sweet ass and a deep v-neck mustard t-shirt with a white short silk scarf around her throat. Instead of heels, she wore flats and her hair was in a small bun.

So this was Isabella when she isn't at work. Still something about her being uptight was firmly in place. The ease of being full free wasn't there.

"You cannot do this. Marcelo, I mean it. This is a professional work environment and I am your-"

"Shut it."

He placed the bag down on the glass round table. He took out the cartons of packed food, setting them onto the table. He placed chopsticks and packets of soy sauce onto the middle.

"Excuse me?" Her tone was aghast.

"I didn't stutter, did I?"

"Get out."