garment into a wet pile at the foot of my bed and stagger towards the shower. Slowly, I remove the rest of my clothing.
I squeeze my feet out of the tight, worn-thin ballet flats. I unclasp my belt, unbutton, unzip, and start the arduous process of stripping the tight khaki pants from my ass and thighs. Going slowly – it hurts to pull down with my injured right shoulder – I slide them over the curve of my ass, wiggling my hips from side to side to help them move. At last, they let go of their stranglehold on my waist and drop to my ankles. I step out of them, shivering in my bra and panties. My room is freezing.
It takes forever to unclasp my bra, but eventually I twist the hook with my left arm and get it off of me. I crank the shower to full heat, remove my purple lacy panties, and step under the stream.
Everything hurts. The hot water rushes over my neck. It streams down between my pale breasts, hanging heavy and full, follows the gentle bend of my stomach, gushes through the soft thicket of my short-clipped pubic hair.
I can’t find the strength to bring my hands up to my head. I’m aching so badly, every cell in me pulsing with dull pain. There’s a knot in my throat that is building and building – has been building for days now, fed by the constant notices of late payment and the meager paychecks and the heat that rises to my cheeks every time I have to scramble for change in the grocery store just to afford soap or a loaf of bread to get me through the week.
The pressure behind the knot reaches a crescendo and before I know it, I am sobbing hysterically. My tears mingle with the shower and they both pour, keep pouring, for far longer than I can afford.
I shuffle into the office a few days later, gritting my teeth in an attempt to conceal my pain. I haven’t been able to go to the doctor and I don’t think I’ll be able to find the money for a medical visit anytime soon. Two debt collectors, one for my tuition and one for my utilities bill, had called over and over again on the way to work, like they were racing to see which of them could make me crack first. I’m close to the breaking point.
Inside, wreaths adorn the walls and a Christmas tree towers in one corner, beaming with ornaments and gift-wrapped boxes stashed underneath the sticky branches. I weave between the desks, smiling and nodding at everyone without making eye contact.
I keep my gaze firmly on the ground. One step at a time , I counsel myself. Everything hurts still. The bruises wrapping around my torso have faded to a hideous yellow-orange, but the one on my face has remained a stubborn lavender.
I reach my seat and lower gingerly into it. Plucking the top page from my inbox, I scan its instructions and start working. The rest of the day passes by blearily in a haze of memo writing, alphabetizing, and spreadsheets that stretch for miles. Carla drifts in and out of my area, dropping off various tasks and picking up completed work.
Around 4:30, she walks past, then pauses, spins on her heel, and comes back towards me.
“Jodie,” she says, “can you do me a favor?”
“Of course,” I say. “How can I help?”
“The cleaning staff had today off, and Mr. Bellamy is hosting an important client for a meeting in his office tomorrow morning, but it’s a bit messy. Would you be able to step in and just touch things up?” she asks.
I gulp, remembering the last time I had entered Mr. Bellamy’s office. Carla arches a questioning eyebrow. “Sure thing,” I chirp, as cheerily as I can manage. “I’ll get right to it.”
“Thanks, Jodie,” she offers over her shoulder as she walks away, her ass sashaying wildly from side to side.
I take a deep breath to quell the panic rising in my stomach, then stand up and head towards the dark office. Mr. Bellamy has been gone all week, so I’m not scared of running into him. We haven’t made eye contact since the
I squeeze my feet out of the tight, worn-thin ballet flats. I unclasp my belt, unbutton, unzip, and start the arduous process of stripping the tight khaki pants from my ass and thighs. Going slowly – it hurts to pull down with my injured right shoulder – I slide them over the curve of my ass, wiggling my hips from side to side to help them move. At last, they let go of their stranglehold on my waist and drop to my ankles. I step out of them, shivering in my bra and panties. My room is freezing.
It takes forever to unclasp my bra, but eventually I twist the hook with my left arm and get it off of me. I crank the shower to full heat, remove my purple lacy panties, and step under the stream.
Everything hurts. The hot water rushes over my neck. It streams down between my pale breasts, hanging heavy and full, follows the gentle bend of my stomach, gushes through the soft thicket of my short-clipped pubic hair.
I can’t find the strength to bring my hands up to my head. I’m aching so badly, every cell in me pulsing with dull pain. There’s a knot in my throat that is building and building – has been building for days now, fed by the constant notices of late payment and the meager paychecks and the heat that rises to my cheeks every time I have to scramble for change in the grocery store just to afford soap or a loaf of bread to get me through the week.
The pressure behind the knot reaches a crescendo and before I know it, I am sobbing hysterically. My tears mingle with the shower and they both pour, keep pouring, for far longer than I can afford.
I shuffle into the office a few days later, gritting my teeth in an attempt to conceal my pain. I haven’t been able to go to the doctor and I don’t think I’ll be able to find the money for a medical visit anytime soon. Two debt collectors, one for my tuition and one for my utilities bill, had called over and over again on the way to work, like they were racing to see which of them could make me crack first. I’m close to the breaking point.
Inside, wreaths adorn the walls and a Christmas tree towers in one corner, beaming with ornaments and gift-wrapped boxes stashed underneath the sticky branches. I weave between the desks, smiling and nodding at everyone without making eye contact.
I keep my gaze firmly on the ground. One step at a time , I counsel myself. Everything hurts still. The bruises wrapping around my torso have faded to a hideous yellow-orange, but the one on my face has remained a stubborn lavender.
I reach my seat and lower gingerly into it. Plucking the top page from my inbox, I scan its instructions and start working. The rest of the day passes by blearily in a haze of memo writing, alphabetizing, and spreadsheets that stretch for miles. Carla drifts in and out of my area, dropping off various tasks and picking up completed work.
Around 4:30, she walks past, then pauses, spins on her heel, and comes back towards me.
“Jodie,” she says, “can you do me a favor?”
“Of course,” I say. “How can I help?”
“The cleaning staff had today off, and Mr. Bellamy is hosting an important client for a meeting in his office tomorrow morning, but it’s a bit messy. Would you be able to step in and just touch things up?” she asks.
I gulp, remembering the last time I had entered Mr. Bellamy’s office. Carla arches a questioning eyebrow. “Sure thing,” I chirp, as cheerily as I can manage. “I’ll get right to it.”
“Thanks, Jodie,” she offers over her shoulder as she walks away, her ass sashaying wildly from side to side.
I take a deep breath to quell the panic rising in my stomach, then stand up and head towards the dark office. Mr. Bellamy has been gone all week, so I’m not scared of running into him. We haven’t made eye contact since the
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