Pink slippers adorn her feet. She slithers her hips into a slip, also pink, and slides her arm into the sleeve of her unfinished sweater. Today, Rosa will get a pink slip - of this she has been warned. Her boss will slip it to her just after lunch at their usual get-a-way, after he’s through slipping it to her the way he does every Tuesday during “lunch”.
Rosa wonders if he’ll notice her new pink slip when he slides it up over her thighs. When he totters up to her, tripping over the undergarments he’s let slide to the floor, wincing as the pain from his slipped disc shoots up his back. Will he have her pink slip on his mind? or in his pocket? Will he slip it to her before or after she slithers between the pink sheets of her new pull-out sofa, the one with the frilly slipcover of pretty pink cowslips she purchased with the last paycheck he laid in her box. Or will he leave it for her in slipshod manner on the night stand as he slips his toes into the slip-ons he keeps by the door, and slinks out, blundering back in through the rear door of his office so no one will suspect him of skating away – every Tuesday at lunch – for a quick slip-and-slide. Will he then call in the rest of her co-workers to state the news? “I had to give the old gal the slip - the pink slip,” he’ll gaffe quickly to cover his Freudian slip.
Rosa shifts her hips and shimmies into her skirt. Her boss has no idea, she thinks, of the tricks she has planned for him. When he is anchored in her bed, she’ll slip him a mickey, slide out from under, and sneak passed his snoring self to remove the photographs she has recorded. Rosa imagines herself sipping Sangria at the port, and slipping slides in a sealed envelope to Scarlett, his wife, who will glide back another sealed envelope - with just enough to make the pink-slip slip away.
But first, Rosa must tend to her knitting. The tap-tap of her needles soothes as she slips the yarn from one to the next. She knits the second sleeve, the time slips away, and the slippery elm outside shakes its leaves at her as if to sing, "Believe we're gliding down the highway, when in fact we're slip sliding away ... "