I only panicked slightly yesterday when I got tin the auxiliary office and found a message that I should call the owner.
What on earth could it be about? Could she have complained to him?
Oddly enough, there has been a strange remote competition between me and her as some of my stories pushed hers off the top hit list on our website.
She seemed a little smug when her stories got the most hits, and perhaps got annoyed when mine replace hers. Is this what she meant in that poem about someone taking what she clawed to get?
This isn’t the only competition either. She posts an outstanding photo with one of her stories, and I post one that is just as good, sometimes better.
None of this is intentional on my part (although I get off on it when it happens), but it must seem that way to her.
Does she complain about it to the owner?
Her writing is brilliant, which makes it difficult for me to compete, which half explains our former temporary boss’ fascination with her. He seems determined to help her cultivate her craft, while I’m for the most part on my own, struggling to keep up.
The owner scares me. He’s been on edge ever since he got back from his extended vacation in the Midwest last month.
I called him anticipating the worst, only to have him ask me if city hall is upset with us.
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“Because they’re not returning any of our phone calls,” he said.
“Do you want me to call them and ask?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m asking them for a favor.”
I’d never heard him sound so insecure. But then, he rarely read the political tea leaves right, always backing the wrong people, people with money but without ethics and most often snake oil schemes that generally failed.
I hung up relieved, though not without apprehension.
The owner talks to her frequently at the office, and I haven’t a clue as to what is said if anything about me.
After more than four weeks of non-interaction with me, she still harbors ill feelings as evident in her last poem, making me wonder if her New York stalker has finally given up on her, and she misses the interaction.
Does he miss her, too? Does he read her poetry and try to put the pieces together? Does he think the last poem was about him? Does he listen to her music the way I sometimes still do, taking comfort in hearing her voice when he knows he can never see her again, knowing she has moved out without him?
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