With an hour of work left, I text Rose.
Please say you're down for happy hour?
Bad day?
Yep. Dior caught me talking about him.
Hahahhahahaah, is all she replies.
I type: Not helping.
You're fucked.
Why? I'm allowed to have a fucking opinion, I tell her.
About your boss? To his face? No.
He's not my boss.
Doesn't he own the company?
No. His dad and uncle do. It's not like I was talking about ~them.
Watch your back, girl. No more shit-talking at work.
Rose is right. I'm usually good about it, but I slipped.
Won't happen again.