Bonnie, my boss back then, always dressed up as if going to
a formal ball, drenched in Chanel No. 5 and eyelashes so long they might have
served as bat wings.
I was her go to guy, the employees she could count on to go anywhere
when one of her other employees called in sick. I often found her waiting at
ach store or Kiosk to make sure I arrived, though I often feat her warm beath
on the back of my neck as she made sure I did the job right, or so I thought,
she married to some icon of Wall Street with whom she had to compete, and me,
the lone wolf living in a cold water flat in Passaic, always nervous around
her, feeling her fingers touch my hand or arm or cheek as is wanted something
else from me, something she could not talk about openly, and never did.
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