March 24, 2016 |
Shit she’s coming, shit shit shit. I’m freezing. She’s not gonna be happy. Damn that assistant for leaving the window open. Hasn’t she learnt yet to put the heating on a half hour before Miss Wintour’s arrival? I knew she was un peu retarde when she came in for her interview. I need at least a half hour to warm up. Didn’t she read the memo? Bitch probably can’t read. There’s nothing she hates more than a cold chair and now I’m screwed. I’m bloody metal. I’m cold as friggin ice. Where did the light go? Oh, it’s dark, it’s dark. She’s here. Ahhh, I love it when she sits on me. The way she gets herself comfortable and then gracefully crosses her legs. I can feel every muscle move and it just feels so so good. Light as a feather she is. And her bottom just fits my seat perfectly. But then she did have me custom made, sent in a mould of her cheeks so to ensure the most satisfying sitting experience. It’s that attention to detail that’s made her who she is today. What did I do to deserve this divine existence? I must have been very good in a previous life. Maybe a nun, or a Bridget Bardot type person saving all the poor little animals from a fate worse than death. I hear voices. There’s someone coming. Is that Andre? She’s getting up. Oh no. Please please don’t let him sit on me. Pretty please. I hate it when he does. He doesn’t lower himself down gracefully, just sort of drops. I can feel my welded joints creaking. I’m getting old. If he parks that rump on me one more time I might give out. Though knowing my luck it’ll be under her not him. Ow, damn it. Why does she let him sit on me? Why can’t he use the couch like everyone else? Ok, keep it together, it’s not for long. Breathe breathe breathe. He’ll be gone soon and she’ll be back. That divine buttock will be back on its throne.
[ March 1, 2016 / 14.53-15.03 / Condé Nast Building / NEW YORK ]
