Message from Laz

“Ms. Nightwing?” The voice belongs to my field tech in Houston, Texas.
“What is it, Laz?” Laz, short for Lazarra. Lazarra Rayburn, my field tech at the Sabine River Nuclear Project. She is a smart young woman that I like a lot. Background noise on the connection blurs her speech.
“I’m trying to pick up my tickets for my flight, tonight, but the agents say that your account is on hold. What do you want me to do? Normally I could pay for the ticket out of my own pocket, but I’m running kind of short this month.”
Damn! Aloud, “I’ll call the bank, Laz. Wait a fifteen minutes before you try to put through the charge again. I’m sure they’ll authorize the payment.”
“Sorry to bother you, Boss.”
“No, no it’s quite alright. I’ve just gone senile, Laz…no forget that, I don’t really mean that. Just over worked.” Laz is very bright but somewhat literal minded. “I’ll see you this evening. Use the company truck parked at the airport—you’ll probably find the gas tank empty or a flat tire.”
“Already a bad day, huh?” I hear a suppressed giggle at the other end.
“You bet!” I hang up without laughing and dial the bank at once. This time I am more aggressive, having gone another five minutes without my morning caffeine. When your bank has all your money and you’ve signed papers giving them discretion in covering shortfalls in one account by moving money from another, why do they always throw shit into the fan?
Stage three. Miss Flannigan is standing in the middle the kitchen, her smile broader than ever. “Anything else to wash? I’ll be doing the laundry the morning.” My bra is on the top of the basket of dirty clothes.