Hot Water

She pulls her pants down next to the tiered concrete fountain, onto the carpet-like verdant lawn, in front of the three-story classic mansion. Its double doors split open around a middle-aged man in a silk robe, his greying cloaked in luxury, sloshing a mug reading, “World’s Best Boss.”

“What the hell are you doing?” He steps one, two wool-lined slippers down onto the first stair of his southern-styled front porch, a droplet of his caffé americano staining the red kassandra brick. She squats, she looks at him, and she shits.

“Who are you?” demands World’s Best Boss.

She glances coolly at a letter in her hand, still squatting.

“A victim of corporate downsizing and departmental outsourcing,” she recites.