TALES FROM THE HIGH RISE
Chapter Four | This Week's Girl
I took a longer lunch than necessary today, dragging my heels at the deli down the street. I held off until the anxiousness about being outside the office had infested my mood, killing the dull twinge of excitement from my hard-won shard of freedom. I could have sent the girl out to get my sandwich, and I could have asked her by name. It's usually not worth remembering before the first month, but it seemed I'd accidentally made an exception. Despite my better judgment, I looked her in the eyes this morning as she took my hat and coat. Head down, lashes poised, there was a sweet edge in her eyes it took a long moment to recognize: a complete lack of conviction and the dull, hungry want that came from the desire to please.
What was she, twenty? Twenty one? With hair still crisply defined from the rollers she'd slept in, and fingers still learning how to hold her Lucky Strike without telegraphing that she was a month-long smoker, converted by the realization all the best dish happened in a cloud of smoke in the break room. The girl was a blank canvas. I recognized the scent of her hairspray as one we’d shilled for Clairol a few months back; she was my audience. She was buying into a promise, one cosmetic at a time.
She was the willingness of youth, wrapped up in a cardigan sweater and dropped on my front desk. I could make her into anything. I could twist her soft corners into whatever shape I wanted, make her a hard-edged machine capable of manning that square foot outside my doorway. Her cheeks were still round with leftover baby fat, almost but not quite spoiled by the hot blaze of red lipstick. She was an eager gossip; teasing out that ruthless streak would be easy. She’d need to work on her discretion. She'd still think of five o'clock as the end of a day long sentence instead of what it really was: a temporary reprieve until morning, a stay of execution that kept getting pushed back.
She'll be gone, I predict, in a week.
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