Scissor Link, Georgette Kaplan [best 7 inch ereader .TXT] 📗

for a janitor.” Janet Lace was standing right next to her.

Wendy turned her head, saw a tower of nylon-encased leg, goddamn leg, and looked back at her laptop. Felt like she was back in high school, trying not to get noticed staring at the head cheerleader.

“And I didn’t know defragmenting hard drives was part of your duties.”

Wendy forced herself to look up. They were co-workers. All she was doing was talking to a co-worker. “I was just finishing up.”

“Everyone else went home four hours ago. That’s not finishing, that’s working. And if you like it so much, there’s always tomorrow.” Janet offered her hand.

Wendy took it, maybe a little too quickly, or maybe a little too slowly—weird to think of Janet Lace as someone you could touch, no matter how casually. Janet helped her to her feet, Wendy shutting the laptop and tucking it under her arm. Now she was face to face with Janet, and Janet was taller than her. By a few inches. High heels. Wendy wore sneakers.

“You’re here too,” Wendy pointed out.

“I’d never ask an employee to do something I wouldn’t do myself. Speaking of, since you’re up…” Janet brought a dossier out from her briefcase, and Wendy could do without the image of Janet’s fingers sliding over glossy black leather. At least, she could do without it until she was alone. Very, very alone. “Your new in-pile.” She handed a dossier to Wendy, thick and heavy. “I’ll expect it to be done with your usual alacrity.”

Usual alacrity? So she was usually…alacritical? That sounded like praise. But what the hell was alacrity?

“Of course,” Wendy said. “I’ll get right on it. With lots of alacrity!”

Janet rolled her eyes, a little fondly, Wendy thought. “Tomorrow. When you’re fresh and well-rested. A good sleep cycle is something you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.”

“I went to engineering school. I don’t remember what one of those is.”

Janet smiled in commiseration and Wendy felt like she’d won the lottery. We have something in common!

“Well, we’ll just have to see about getting you to mind your bedtime, won’t we?”

Why had God put sweat glands on Wendy’s thighs? It felt like a monsoon season in the backs of her knees. Was that normal? Maybe she had a gland condition.

Wendy clutched the dossier tight to her chest, bundled with her laptop—hugging them, really. Was this what getting the team captain’s letterman jacket felt like? “It’s not my bedtime just yet,” Wendy said, because a demon had suddenly possessed her and someone with a voodoo doll of her stuck a needle into the ‘say stupid shit’ part of her brain. “Why don’t we get a drink?”

Janet blinked, a bit like a particularly lazy lizard might.

Wendy found that hot. Slightly frightening.

Then Janet’s head tilted forward, her glasses catching a beam of light and becoming two brilliant oval jewels, gleaming too bright to be looked at directly. “I think you’ve misunderstood our relationship,” Janet said, her voice affectless.

Wendy said, “Oh,” and would’ve liked to be anywhere else. In a split-second, she thought of all the ‘anywhere elses’ in the world, from North Korea to the South Pole, and decided that all of them were better than here.

Janet raised her hand and pressed two fingers, fore and middle, into Wendy’s chest. “I think you’re going to make a fine employee. I appreciate the contributions I foresee you making to this company. And I recruited you in that expectation. But we’re not friends. I’m not your mentor. I’m not some sister helping you out of feminist solidarity. I’m your boss, you are my subordinate, and our relationship—our working relationship—is strictly that.”

She went on from there, trying to let Wendy down easy—as easy as she could, anyway. But Wendy wasn’t listening anymore. She’d seen what was on Janet’s left hand.

There was a very good reason why Janet had not fallen hopelessly in love with her as well. She had already fallen hopelessly in love.

And, naturally, Janet had married him.

CHAPTER 4

Dear Roberta,

 

I remember you suggested a marriage counselor some time ago. Despite how things have deteriorated, I still believe that’s unnecessary. I’ve read numerous texts and internalized them quite thoroughly. We’re two reasonable people—we can resolve our issues without an outside party. If that’s what we both want.

 

Frankly, I believe you want a counselor because you think they’ll take your side. Let me disabuse you of the notion. From any outside, unbiased perspective, I am in the right. My decisions and my career have consistently benefitted us. What do you have to complain about? The home my work has provided you? The luxuries? The respect? You treat my good fortune like an oppression of you, my career aspirations as your embarrassment. It’s aggravating me and shameful to yourself…

Janet stopped writing. Too aggressive. Too angry. She usually never let herself get this angry. At a certain point, too much fire stopped fueling an engine and started damaging it. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Bobbi had grown tired of putting up with a wife who was more successful than she was.

Or she’d just grown tired of Janet.

Janet set her fountain pen aside with her notebook—both in the cold space where Roberta had once slept—and rolled over to see her bedside clock. It was 7 a.m. Saturday, no work. Still, she wouldn’t sleep in. She would keep her habit. Otherwise, it was useless.

Exercise regimen: an hour every day, seven days a week. She wasn’t a kid anymore. She couldn’t afford to be lazy. Cardio. Jump rope. Light weights. Treadmill to cool her down to a finish. Her earbuds beat out a rhythm, she followed it. No peak, no summit, just control. She wasn’t trying to burn fat, lose ten pounds, or build muscle. She was trying to maintain. Keep the statue polished to a sheen. Keep chipping away at it, because there was always something underneath. She pushed her limit to the almost comfortable frenzy, hard sweat, harsh breaths, burning in her arms and legs. The rhythm pushed into her