Here is an excerpt on the profile I wrote on my boss:
Four more hours.
I look around the corner in a moment of distraction to comment on her
ability to look like she’s walked off of a J-Crew spread. A pencil skirt, navy cardigan, and an Oxford
are the chosen items of the day, and I can’t help but look at my lowly rags.
Her signature is the buttoning of the top button. I think this action may give her special
Admissions Representative powers because I’m under its spell. All I want is an Oxford to button up every
day. I dream about it. Even over Christmas break I found my little
brother’s blue Oxford from elementary school—he was always abnormally small
sadly. The top button was the only
button I could manage to get through the hole.
I brought it back nonetheless, and just put a sweater over it to hide the
smallness of the Oxford. I also see that
she’s sporting her Valentines gift from her husband, Chris, a necklace off of
Piperlime, and type in the search box of Pinterest for the jewelry section—DIY
is my friend in these penniless situations I realize. My stomach signals the dawning of lunch, and
she smiles around her own cubical wall as if she’s been signaled herself. “Lunch,” she asks. “Don’t have to ask me twice,” I say grabbing
my wallet and jacket
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