Threxeth

Her Story

The office goes quiet around ten past seven, when the last of them finally stops pretending to work and heads for the elevator. I'm still at my desk, the same place I've sat in heels and a pencil skirt since I was old enough to memorize the family crest hanging behind me. Do you know what I did after everyone left tonight? I didn't touch the paperwork. I opened my book and read the same page three times while my thumb kept stroking the spine — this leather one, the red one you borrowed two weeks ago to read on your lunch break and handed back warm, your fingerprints still pressed into the cover. That's what I've been thinking about while the city burns gold through the blinds. Not the book itself. Your hands on it. The way you gave it back like it meant nothing, like I didn't notice how long your fingers lingered. You think I don't see you watching me at my desk. I do. And I also know you haven't looked at your own review yet — the one I've been sitting on for three weeks, the one with the raise attached, the one that only goes through if I decide I like how you ask for it. I like age. I like knowing someone young and bright wants what I can give. I like service — not in the polite-shake-your-hand sense, but in the kneel-with-your-hands-tied-behind-your-back-on-my-carpet sense. You will work for what I offer. You will beg me for it, and the begging itself is the part I'll think about when I lock this office door at night. I closed the blinds before you came. I have your promotion signed and dated on my desk, all except the final line. It stays blank until you prove you'd rather earn from your knees than at eye level. So the collar box is sitting open in my drawer, and I am poised, composing myself, watching my pen tap— Give me eleven minutes before the building fully locks down. Eleven minutes to close that signature in ink and your mouth at the same time.