teapot
receipt
stand
barnacle
umbrella
Having been up half the night chatting with an [adjective] internet stranger, Jill was exhausted, which is why, when she connected her hard drive to update some files, it took her three whole seconds to notice it was a few gigs light.
Again? she sighed, and scanned the disk to see what was missing. Acadia: check. Barnacle: check. Carousel: check. Drivel: check. . . . Receipt: check. Stand: check. Teapot: check. Umbrella: um... Umbrella...? The folder was gone. Gone.
They's a mess of top-secrets been K.I.A. Jill reckoned. But she wasn't concerned. First of all, they weren't her top-secrets, and secondly, she'd been blabbing them.
Since she'd also blabbed, one week earlier, to Mr. Umbrella, as she'd dubbed him, about having the files—which consisted primarily of naughty confessions made in the whoops! of the moment—in her possession, she was pretty sure she knew who had erased them. Of course, what she didn't blab was that she'd already blabbed. Otherwise, he mightn't have bothered.
Yup. Easy come, easy go, Jill chuckled as she retrieved another disk from the mountain of backups she kept. In her line of work, she found it necessary. Besides, they made excellent party favors.
Once she was finished with the updates, she had a lovely morning. Then she had a lovely afternoon, followed by a lovely evening and, naturally, a rather pleasant night flooded with dreams of love, love, love—all consensual.
In the morning, after a lovely breakfast and a bit of correspondence, Jill connected her hard dri—
—lost a dear computer of hers, which passed away suddenly and spectacularly. R.I.P. and all that.
Far too jaded to attempt to pull off a sob much less a wail, instead she picked up the phone and dialled her employer, one Mr. Acadia.
"Y'ello."
"I lost another one."
[laughter] "A new record."
"My mother will be proud."
"Two days."
"Can't wait."
She did, though, and two days later, Jill was back in business.
intercom
ingratiating
distance
vicarious
thrum
receipt
stand
barnacle
umbrella
Having been up half the night chatting with an [adjective] internet stranger, Jill was exhausted, which is why, when she connected her hard drive to update some files, it took her three whole seconds to notice it was a few gigs light.
Again? she sighed, and scanned the disk to see what was missing. Acadia: check. Barnacle: check. Carousel: check. Drivel: check. . . . Receipt: check. Stand: check. Teapot: check. Umbrella: um... Umbrella...? The folder was gone. Gone.
They's a mess of top-secrets been K.I.A. Jill reckoned. But she wasn't concerned. First of all, they weren't her top-secrets, and secondly, she'd been blabbing them.
Since she'd also blabbed, one week earlier, to Mr. Umbrella, as she'd dubbed him, about having the files—which consisted primarily of naughty confessions made in the whoops! of the moment—in her possession, she was pretty sure she knew who had erased them. Of course, what she didn't blab was that she'd already blabbed. Otherwise, he mightn't have bothered.
Yup. Easy come, easy go, Jill chuckled as she retrieved another disk from the mountain of backups she kept. In her line of work, she found it necessary. Besides, they made excellent party favors.
Once she was finished with the updates, she had a lovely morning. Then she had a lovely afternoon, followed by a lovely evening and, naturally, a rather pleasant night flooded with dreams of love, love, love—all consensual.
In the morning, after a lovely breakfast and a bit of correspondence, Jill connected her hard dri—
—lost a dear computer of hers, which passed away suddenly and spectacularly. R.I.P. and all that.
Far too jaded to attempt to pull off a sob much less a wail, instead she picked up the phone and dialled her employer, one Mr. Acadia.
"Y'ello."
"I lost another one."
[laughter] "A new record."
"My mother will be proud."
"Two days."
"Can't wait."
She did, though, and two days later, Jill was back in business.
intercom
ingratiating
distance
vicarious
thrum