“Damn it, Jennifer! You know I hate fucking pickles and yet here they are on my burger.” “I told them specifically not to put them on your Big ...ac, because I know you don’t like them. I can’t help that they don’t listen.” I mumbled in response as my fingers tap on the screen of his iPad; earning a scoff in return. By the time I’m done revising his notes and making sure things are perfect by the time he is done eating; we leave to go to the conference room. While we’re walking I take in his. I’m five feet, ten inches tall, one hundred fifty pounds, a white chick with a big chest and unusual coloring. The red hair and pale skin was owed to my Irish ancestors, the purple eyes a fluke of nature that said little about myself as a person, but they were what everyone associated me with. I kept in shape, I ran three miles every day, lifted weights twice a week, and I didn’t eat a lot of crap. I smoked too much and I drank heavily, but I was in good health. I grew up in Detroit and knew by. More

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