The Bad Secretary
By Christine Hamm
She weeps into your coffee; staples memos to her blouse. She has acne; her lipstick smears. She breaks up with her boyfriend every
other weekend and makes you hear about it. She is always twenty minutes late. She sometimes answers the phone with a stunned
silence, as if she’s forgotten not only where she works and who she is, but what a phone is. She loses files. She erases files. She gets a
manicure once a week. Her nails are so long she can’t type. She has carpal tunnel so she can’t
type. She shows up one Monday in a neck brace. She forgets to wear a bra. She swears (a lot). She refuses to get you lunch. You find a
voodoo doll of yourself in her desk. She makes you hate her. She smells of cinnamon and dog shit. When she wears a tank top, you
swear you see the flutter of wings around her shoulder blades. Your palm pilot melts in its cradle. Your tie makes like a lobster and
pinches your nose. Your titanium G-4 explodes. You can’t stop yourself from putting your tongue in her mouth. She doesn’t wear
underwear. She doesn’t bathe. She makes you love her. She is your master.
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