Yes, I now must tell you about an asshole. His name is Dima. Dmitry, for long. And he should not exist. Why? I will tell you later. Because right now, my thoughts are with Nastya. The plump one. You remember. She washes socks for girls. So that the girls can look pretty in front of the camera.
The thing with Nastya is that she is popping too much. She is like a popcorn in a microwave. Pop. Pop. Pop, pop, pop! All over the place, in all departments in the office.
Yes, I work in the office. I am a manager. A good manager. I tell my staff to stand, they ask how high. I tell them, not too high. Hah hahaha!
But how would I describe Nastya. Plumpness you already remember. She has darker hair, it fluffs like a horses mane. She wears lots of beige cardigan tops and sweaters. She smells nice; her perfume has peachy and woody notes with zingy acidity. When she pops by you in the hall, her scent lingers in the air like an echo.
"Nastya!" I yell. She just walked past my office and I want to talk to her. My staff is in the office. They don't react. They sit quietly at their computers. The computers are underpowered. But so is their brain, so there is no effect on their work.
"Nastya!" I yell again. She does not come into my office. She must have popped into somebody else's room. "God dammit" I exhale in frustration. Maria looks up at me. She is a Junior Manager. 21 years old. I look at her. She looks back down. At her slow computer.
The walls in this office are pale yellow. Just like the skin color of an anti-depressed chain smoker. Or that fuck Dima!! Hah hahha hahhaa!
"Nastya!!" I yell again as she walks again past my office, now into the opposite direction as before. Suddenly, her fluffy mane haired head pops into the door hole.
Nastya: "Petr! What?!" She yells at me. But not in an angry way. In a Russian way. Which mostly means affection. But it can also mean that I'm not afraid to kick your ass.
"Nastya, I yell at you three times, and you don't hear me," I say this in a monotonic voice. There is no emotional charge. Yet, the volume of my voice is loud. Maria looks up again.
Nastya: "Well, and so what? I have a photoshoot today, guests are coming in the afternoon, the book dealer is expecting from us the materials today. What do you want? I'm busy."
"Nastya, I just wanted to know what is the last name of that photographer? He was Fedya something? I know a photographer by that name from Moscow. Maybe he's my friend?"
Nastya: "His name is Fedor Raskovich. Do you know him?"
Unbelievable. Fedya was my car mechanic. And now he shoots photos? "No, I don't know him." I tell Nastya that. She does not need to know. With that, she turns around and leaves. She is wearing dark gray business pants with brown vertical stripes. They make her butt look slimmer. Not that I mind.
Chapter 2: Where We Meet an Asshole and a Car Mechanic