I woke up that morning feeling like I had fought a heavyweight battle in my sleep. My throat was on fire, my head was pounding, and even my bones felt tired. There was no way I was making it to work. So, like a responsible adult, I called in sick.
"Take care of yourself," my boss said over the phone, his voice dripping with fake concern. "Health is wealth."
I nodded weakly, even though he couldn’t see me. "Thank you, sir. I’ll rest."
And rest, I did, at the mall.
Okay, in my defense, I had run out of meds, and I needed some comfort food. So I threw on a hoodie, dragged myself to the nearest pharmacy, and then stopped by a fast-food joint for some pepper soup. Because, you know, healing.
As I was waiting for my order, I felt a chilling presence behind me. That sixth sense, the one that warns you of impending doom, activated.
I turned slowly, and there he was, my boss, in full corporate regalia, staring at me like I had just been caught robbing a bank.
I choked on my saliva. "Oh! Good afternoon, sir."
"Hmm," he said, eyeing my pepper soup. "I see you're feeling better."
I wanted to explain, to tell him that the fresh air was part of my recovery plan, but he was already walking away, shaking his head like a disappointed father.
