June’s P.O.V.
It’s Monday, and I was back at work. My boss called me into his office and closed the door.
“June, I’ve been worried about you all weekend since you fell over in the stairwell and hurt your knee. Because I rang someone to see you urgently on Friday after work, and I am paying the bill, I want to make sure you got the treatment you deserve,” he says quietly.
“It went well, sir. The old man there was a bit surprised that someone my age turned up in a teeny tight mini skirt when everyone was going home for the weekend on his floor,” I replied candidly. “He did spend about an hour and a half looking at my knee.”
He looks up, surprised. “More than an hour for your knee?”
“Well, he was very thorough as it involved lots of leg stretches and that sort of thing.”
“Look, June, q
