Today's writing

Footsteps. I alt-tab again. I’m back to the AP wire and all its dubious interests. She comes into my cubicle. She’s middle-aged, with dyed blonde hair and glasses that are too large for her face. She has a husband at home but no one’s ever seen him. She has a string of poorly hidden affairs. The flavor of the month works at the prison and sends her flowers from the discount shop down the street. They sit on her desk, their stems of necks bowing low, and she beams.

It’s not obvious how she does it, how she earns this stream of attention from man after illicit man. I only know that every eye sees its own set of characteristics, each small gift that strings itself together like beaded jewelry.