I strode into EE's office, brandishing my masterpiece, forever encased in a shiny polycarbonate disc.
He peered over his reading glasses, his grey brows knitted in confusion. "What's that?"
"It's my memoi."
"Memoi. Life story. Mr. Evil, this'll fly off the shelves! Everyone will want to know about life inside the CIA."
EE took the disc from my hand and held it between thumb and forefinger, his nose wrinkling. "What's this stuff all over it?"
"Oh, that… I had to wrestle it off some wise-ass gym employee who thought it could either fetch him a payoff from the Russian Embassy or hush money from me. It kinda fell into my Big Mac combo meal while we were struggling in the car." I plucked a tissue from a box on his desk and offered it to him.
I winced as he scoured the CD like a cast iron frying pan. "What happened to the gym guy?" he inquired as he flicked away a sliver of lettuce coated with special sauce.
"Oh, he won't bother me anymore," I said with a dismissive wave of my manicured fingers. "I took care of it. Nobody – NOBODY will scoop you on this fabulous opportunity; you can count on that."
Evil Editor slid the CD into his computer watched the screen. His expression morphed from anticipation to annoyance. "What the Hell is this?" He glared at me. "It looks like a bunch of recipes."
I spoke slowly, as if to a child who didn't understand. "I told you; it's about my life in the CIA."
He pressed the eject button and flicked the disc across the desk. "When you told me that, I thought you were talking about the Central Intelligence Agency, not the Culinary Institute of America. Get outta here."
--Sandra Cormier Turnsek