Renea Mayhew spent her ‘meeting day’ (Tuesday) working from home. Her presence was requested in no less than 3 of her clinics, but she would be hopping from one call to the next for 11 hours and reasoned that doing so in a clinic would be less efficient. Her operations call ended a blessed four minutes early today and she jumped to her feet, eager to relieve her bladder before the next call. She hurried out of the home office and down the hall toward the closest restroom. She opened the door, unzipped her jeans, and paused before closing it. The distinct sounds of Mario Kart being played in the living room reached her ears, but Peter was attending goat yoga with Vicky. Renea leaned around the corner, barely restraining a laugh at what she saw.
Greg Van gods damned Helsing was sitting no more than three-feet from the television, cursing quietly as his kart veered just a touch to the right on the Rainbow Road track. Just a touch was just enough to launch him into the infinite beyond. Amused, Renea watched as he put the controller down and used one of the Mayhew’s spare (old and obsolete) laptops to guugle ‘Mario Kart tips’. Rolling her eyes at just how far the phrase ‘boys will be boys’ really went, she returned to the bathroom.
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“It’s a pity your new friend couldn’t make it,” Vicky said, her head turned to the right to face Peter while executing a passable downward dog. A spotted baby goat was eyeing her raised buttocks, perhaps gauging its landing.
“Oh he could have made it,” Peter said, leaning forward to boop an all black baby goat on its nose with his forehead - simultaneously deepening the stretch of his own downward dog. “He just didn’t want to.”
“I’ve met men like him before,” the venerable Vicky claimed. “It’s hard to get them out to stuff like this, but they always have the most fun if you can manage it.”
“I know right?” Peter agreed. The spotted goat leaped heroically onto Vicky’s bum, knocking her off balance. The goat and the old woman toppled to the ground in an adorable tangle of limbs and fur and tiny horns. “Greg would have loved this.”
The black goat screamed into Peter’s face - a horrid, high pitched bleating - and then defecated onto his yoga mat. Peter frowned, he’d left his spray bottle of bleach in a locker.
“Probably…”