MARRIED LOVELESSLY

ONE

Natalia Romanova, even her name makes me violently angry but god her face plastered on these billboards makes me nauseous.

She's a much-loved woman by most but then again so is any woman if you paint her like a princess. Even the darkest and most depressed souls find her to be a light, the sun and the stars if you will.

Love-struck fans stay gawking at her billboard; my shoulders bash from one mindless teenager to the next, dodging phone's taking pictures.

This is New York people, fucking walk. Somehow, she makes the busiest of cities stand still and the most aggravating thing, she does it so damn effortlessly. That's how it would appear anyway. I truly believe that's why I hate her the way I do.

I walk into the office, damp hair dripping down my back. The lukewarm coffee in my hand splashed as it falls into the trash. The office is as lovely as ever, buzzing with people too busy gossiping to get a single piece of work done.

At 9 am what could anyone possibly have to fucking gossip about? I stare blankly at the computer on my desk which fails to start up- it does this every day.

"Aren't you full of joy today?" Cecelia says.

"As joyful as ever," I mock, sardonically, of course.

Cecelia might be the only person I can tolerate in this hell hole. Though, if I'm honest she tolerates me more than I have to tolerate her.

"You could've just told me you saw the billboards, you didn't have to show me," She laughs.

I stare at her.

"Jesus Lia, if looks could fucking kill," she half-jokes.

"God I hate her Cece, I really hate her."

She nods as she leans against my desk, "you'd never know you two used to be friends with the way you talk about her."

"Yeah well, heavy emphasis on used to be, past tense."

"You never explain why you hate her though you just moan about her."

"There's not much to it, her career kicked off she started staring in those movies and that was is she left without a word," I tell her.

That was not it and there is something more to it.

Cecelia shrugged as she jumped off my desk abruptly scurrying to her own desk which faced mine.

"Mr big boss man," she muttered, covering her words with a cough.

The office chatter slowly dies down as his black suit and oxford shoes come into view. Mr Lexington's face is stern as always.

His chin is held high as if we're mere commoners compared to him (we are) the crease in his forehead says more about his stress levels than his age. Mr big boss man was always the stressed-out hot head type not like me. I'm more of an anxiously stressed person.

"Amelia I emailed you to come to my office," he groans and as usual I can smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath which never fails to make my stomach turn.

I stand up and follow him towards his office muttering something about the way I would've seen the email if he would pay a penny or two to fix our prehistoric computers.

He's a famously cheap man, so much money in his pocket and yet not a penny leaves those ill-fitting trousers he wears. I glance back at Cecelia who's looking back at me.

Her eyes are just as wide as my own. Cecelia and I have developed an unspoken language of odd facial expressions. So in the few seconds that we lock eyes, we communicate back and forth.