Arancio Borealis is 'orange' in Lamborghini speak.
***
The screaming orange ride is the only car in the parking lot next to our van. It looks like a turtle if a turtle was a master-predator cheetah... whom am I kidding? It is a fucking Lamborghini. My zero close encounters with uber-luxury cars and uber-luxury men tell me that it is not just a Lamborghini... it's a Lamborghini of the Lamborghinis.
"Get in, we have to hurry," Scali says. He is correct: it's 2 hours and 52 min before the funeral.
Scali turns on his heel, not waiting for my gulp of protest. How is this real? The carnations must mean something to him, something bigger than I can understand.
This is loco, Bryn, totally loco. This Scali, the carnations, the posh church on the beach, it's all a delusional dream.
Apparently, even in my wildest dream, my subconsciousness turned Floribunda’s biggest account client into a delivery boy. My aptitude is not lost on Sheila. She's afraid of them, like she owns them money. Maybe she does, since everyone does if I go by the mafia movies. Again, nevermind. Never-you-fucking-mind!
Shela spears me with an unmistakable glance. It's a you're-fired glance. It chases me out of the church, as I skip down the steps after the gorgeous Mr. Scali to the awaiting Lamborghini Huracan. Some girls would prefer a Ferrari as their getaway vehicle from being fired on the spot, but I am not that picky. A Lamborghini would do.
"Why do I feel like I should be wearing a gown?" I wipe my fingers on the front of my overalls before grabbing the gleaming chrome handle, but there is no need. He throws the passenger door open for me. Chivalry is alive and well!
"The only gown in your wardrobe is your prom dress," Scali says. He is bullshitting, but he is good at it. It totally sounds like he personally inventoried my closet, not making a wild guess.
So, the magnanimous move wasn’t not chivalry in the first place. He just couldn't stand my pleb hand touching his sexy wheels. Meanwhile, he finished his full body scan. His eyes rest on my name tag. "And that's a pity, Bryn. Beauty doesn't last forever, the regrets do."
"You can read too! Well, maybe I am not Bryn. Maybe I am wearing someone else's overalls, what's then?"
The kings of the silver screen recreate men who undress women with their eyes all the time. In real life, directed at me, not at a beautiful mutant, the effect is unfiltered.
"If you are not Bryn, it suits you. The old tent and flannels don't."
"Oh, so my name suits me? How nice. Should I do a happy dance for you, Sir?"
"Maybe later," he says, continuing this thing he does with his eyes. In his defence, he doesn't leer. It's more of an assessment. I feel it when he surmises that my flannel shirt plays refuge to nothing more intriguing than a black sports bra. No piercings, no tats, no lace. Just a garden variety sports bra, one from the EZ-Swaps collection. For some reason, I wish I was a secret leopard thong wearer to just prove him wrong. I wouldn’t go as far as drop my pants, but I would cheer in my heart.
"Bryn?" he repeats impatiently. His voice makes the command more bearable than when Sheila calls me three times in a row. "Are you waiting for the screeching woman to join us?"
My brain grinds in gear and I tumble inside the tarmac-hugging car.
Bryn is in.
The Lamborghini's gears are faster than my neurons. The back lighted dials on the dashboard flip out, the engine roars and the hell-car leaps forward before I click in the seatbelt.
The g-force threatens to flatten me against the white leather... but I survive the take off to fumble some more with the belt buckle. Oh, joy!
Shall I write a strongly worded letter about my experience to the engineers? Though it might be a human error thing, an error of expecting the fine motor skills function unimpeded within a foot from Scali, with the engine vibrating underneath.
The car is working as designed, ma'am, just replace the driver if the problem persists.
First the sexy underwear wish, then the numb fingers... gosh, things are going downhill fast.
My brain needs a cleanse, because for me to impress a guy driving an orange Lamborghini? Phulease! If a fairy god-mother waves her wand to drape me in Prada or Chanel or whatever else dry-clean only, I'd still be Bryn, the florist to the City of Divas, not Cinderella 2016.
And then I make a fatal mistake of looking up from the fastened seat belt buckle.
The dashboard clock gives me 2 hours 33 min before the funeral of the mob boss Rosario Tangorello, but I will not live that long.
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