I came into the office on Tuesday as if nothing bothered me,
as if she’d made no threat to destroy my life.
I talked to people in the bullpen, and even asked if what I
had written for my column had caused her any grief in any of the towns she covered.
During the meeting, I even looked her way she when she went
over what she planned to do for the week.
Several times, when I was looking at other of the other employees,
she changed position, edging into my view – most likely accidentally.
At the end of the meeting, she flirted with one of the
owners, then left to attend the premier of a movie in NYC.
At one point, she had actually emailed me to say she needed
drink. I don’t know if this was an accident, meaning to email someone else,
much like the texting she had done for her grand opening when she thought she
was texting her brother.
I emailed back that it was not a good idea, but I said I’d
leave a bottle of something on her desk, a gesture, an apology before I left.
This morning, I got a one-word email from her saying “Thanks;”
I replied “Anytime.”
After reading a number of her stories for the previous week,
I emailed her saying I thought her work was influenced by Tom Wolfe.
In truth, she is a clever writer – perhaps the best on the staff,
but what she does for the company is slick and largely lacks the death of
feeling her poetry contains.
I mentioned none of this, still walking on egg shells I
feared would break with every step.
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