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About Gyor

Oh, and the oil—smells like sex and flowers. Slippery as a Lannister lie. I ask her, “What’s in this?” She says, “Secret.” Secret my arse—I bet it’s just posh lard. Still, I’m floatin’, mate. Floatin’. “What does it mean?” I mumble, like some twat from the movie. She don’t answer—just keeps rubbin’. Good enough for me.

Then, outta nowhere, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. He’s like, “We need to talk.” My heart drops. I’m thinking, “Oh great, what did I screw up now?” Turns out, he just wanted to praise me for my sales this month. I’m like, “Seriously? After all this chaos?”