Year of the Chick by Romi Moondi Read Free Book Online Page B

sensed the beginnings of a lobby, with hundreds of candles further along the way. Those candles were my only guide to the trendy décor, complete with Japanese-inspired sculptures, black leather couches and red-painted walls.
    But what was that smell?
    Things became fuzzy in a matter of seconds, as my nose fell victim to the toxic levels of cologne. I wondered if the men had conspired to emit this gaseous roofie; was there a pile of passed-out women around the corner? I suddenly noticed that Laura was nowhere in sight. My mind flashed back to being five years old in a department store, and losing my parents in the dishware aisle. I eventually found them, but not before falling down the last two steps of an escalator, with my mouth slamming hard on a bin of men’s underwear. I chipped a tooth that day.
    I had no intention of chipping any grown-up teeth, so I stayed where I was like a fearful deer, waiting for my little Laura.
    “Romes! Where were you? I thought you were coming to the coat-check.” Laura was suddenly in front of me, minus one tailored coat, but plus one fitted green sweater and some hip-hugging pinstriped pants.
    I followed Laura to a corner of the lobby, where a beautiful woman with giant boobs took my coat.
    Can everyone please stop being so hot?
    “How do I look?” I straightened out my baby-blue blouse that was saved for special occasions. Worn with my black office pants, it was a very professional outfit. Well, almost.   The shirt was extremely tight and made of five-percent spandex, which managed to give my boobs some faux abundance. The only downside to a shirt so tight up top was that the bottom hugged my body too. This was less than ideal considering my stomach’s little rolls . But who will even see them in this darkened bar?
    Laura simply smiled at my outfit choice ( was that a patronizing smile? ) before leading the way to the lounge.
    We quickly decided that a table was out of the question. The place was packed. I couldn’t even tell where one person ended and another one began.  
    How are we supposed to find the men when we can’t even see?
    We delayed the man-search and squeezed towards the bar instead, to order ourselves some pomegranate martinis (classy yet delicious).
    From there we moved to an empty space of floor by a wall post. Once we had claimed it as ours, we finally surveyed the scene.
    A scene that was entirely shocking.
    “Wow,” said Laura, with the widest eyes I’d ever seen.
    “Is this the right dimension of the universe?” I asked.
    “All of these girls. They’re actual, official...”  
    “Sluts.” That’s all I could say before reverting to a stunned kind of silence. A silence created by an over-flowing scene of slutified Barbies, crowding each other on the Skanks-R-Us shelf.   It was so much more than cleavage and colossal boobs (which was still intimidating, but at least within reason). It was more like mini-skirts, pointed hooker boots, and hair volumized to high heaven.  
    “Look at the girl standing next to the statue of the silver Buddha. Her shirt is back-less. Her shirt, DOES NOT HAVE A BACK.” My voice had quickly changed from shocked to incredibly threatened.
    “The one by the corner couch keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing a tiny skirt. I can…see things.” Poor little Laura was tainted, yet she still couldn’t look away.
    “There’s no way in hell these girls are from an office. Unless they brought duffle bags, and changed into their slut-gear after work.”
    Laura nodded rapidly. “I think you’re right Romes. Like the one to my left is chewing bubble gum, IN A BAR, and the one on my right just asked a guy why he uses spreadsheets when he can use a calendar. These girls are from the outside.”  
    Once I had processed her findings, I suddenly had a flash.
    “I know exactly where these girls are from. They’re from low-paying, boring jobs. They toil away all day and race downtown at five, so they can live out