But at some point, her hair slackened, her coutenance became pallid, veins jutted out and she found herself walking up and down the same hallway without purpose or conviction. Perhaps some twenty-five years ago she saw herself doing something more romantic with her life than succumbing to the nine-to-five plague. Contagious and difficult to avoid without the financial backing to get you out of it.
I wondered if she was still the same inside, having the same thoughts about moving to Europe and writing a modern neo-noir screenplay. A slight wrinkled appeared between her eyes, perhaps when thoughts of the man that was once in her life seared through her brainless waves and she wondered what leaving this city with him would have been like. Leaving the security of stable income and demanding family behind. Sometimes I saw a lustful color in her greyish black eyes. Then I remembered her dream had died long ago.
And she approached closer. I could hear the scratching of her nylon thighs rubbing against one another. Her jaw hung slackly in a silent "o" - perhaps a disguised cry for help from the soul that still existed inside. I continued to stare at my computer screen, nervous and still in the hopes that she wasn't coming for me. But she was standing over me now.
"Did you get your name plate yet?"
I turned around and looked up at her expressionless face and red stained teeth. "No Mary, not yet."
She nodded her head and slowly turned to walk back the way she came. I relaxed a bit and turned back to my computer. Must suck to do the same thing day after day, I thought as I sent off another excel spreadsheet.
I felt my eyes glaze over.
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