Swapping Secretaries

Miranda lit a cigarette off Gloria's silver lighter and laughed like she meant it. "Christ, every time you open your mouth your people talk like they learned English in some overpriced kennel." Gloria crossed her legs, expensive nylons hissing. "Says the woman who keeps an intern whose only purpose is watering her husband." Naomi stood three feet away, eyes pinned to the carpet, invisible except when they decided to gut her. Gloria flicked a wrist. "Naomi, pour. Mir, you sure you're still fucking that boy with the face tattoo, or has Daddy finally put a stop to the charity work?" Miranda smiled around the filter. "He's got a bigger heart than your last trophy wife. Not your type." They laughed like hyenas on a cliff, voices tumbling over Naomi as though she were just another folder on the desk. The conversation slipped. Talk turned to blood-colored wallpaper and the new film about bullet wounds and silk gowns. Gloria said Solange Yves was in it. Miranda corrected her. Miranda was positive it was Avril Keaton. They were drunk on arrogance and white wine. Gloria slammed the couch cushion. "So stake her. Whoever’s wrong gives their girl for twenty-four hours. Twenty-four busy, sweaty, let-the-help-clean hours." Naomi heard the offer land inside her chest like a warm coin. Her stomach twisted. Her thighs answered too soon. The women stared each other down while sunlight slid across the floor and Naomi counted heartbeats like silverware, wondering who would reach for her first.