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  114 was stil there. I'd done what it said. Rubbed myself in

  the shower that morning until my breath came tight and

  close and my entire body tensed until I eased off. It had

  been close. I knew my body too wel not to bring myself

  off within a few minutes. But I'd stopped myself, because

  unlike the intended recipient of the notes, I did know

  discipline.

  I'd written the letter, too, describing how I'd touched

  myself with fingers slick with my saliva and tilted my clit

  against the spray of water until my thighs shook and my

  breath came hot and hard and fast. How I'd had to turn

  breath came hot and hard and fast. How I'd had to turn

  the water to cold to keep myself from getting dizzy as I

  rubbed and stroked. I'd used the finest paper in my

  colection, my favorite pen, and I'd taken such care with

  each letter, every stroke, that I was almost late for work.

  I didn't give anyone the letter, of course. But I couldn't

  bring myself to throw it away. I put it in my nightstand,

  instead, tucked into the pages of the book on movie

  history.

  The ache between my legs flared as I shifted the gears of

  my car, and as I walked, and as I turned in my desk chair

  to pul files from the drawer.

  Paul was not out of the office today, but he hadn't come

  out yet this morning. Not even for coffee. Him hiding away

  with his door closed was not unusual, but him not at least

  caling out to me for a mug was.

  Two weeks ago it wouldn't have occurred to me to think

  he was stil angry with me for screwing up the files the day

  before. Two weeks ago I wouldn't have much cared.

  Now, I listened hard for the sound of his voice and stared

  at my computer screen without typing anything.

  "Paige." Paul stood in his doorway. I'd been so

  "Paige." Paul stood in his doorway. I'd been so

  preoccupied, I hadn't even heard him. "Can you come in

  here, please?"

  I nodded, but was clumsy when I stood. I knocked a pile

  of folders, so the papers inside slid across my desk in a

  messy heap. Paul stopped me when I tried to gather them.

  "Now, please."

  I nodded again and folowed him into his office. He didn't

  tel me to sit, so I didn't. I could tel nothing from the look

  on his face, which was carefuly blank. Over his shoulder, I

  could see the red numbers of his clock radio, tuned to a

  station playing soft jazz. I swalowed hard, my nerves on

  fire.

  "I think we need to have an understanding."

  I said nothing, not trusting my voice.

  Paul cleared his throat and folded his hands together on

  the desk. He didn't look at me. I couldn't look away.

  "I believe I have a reputation for being…difficult. To work

  for."

  for."

  "I don't think so." The pulse beat in my throat, forcing my voice to deepen.

  He looked at me then, straight in the eye. His hands on the

  desk tightened inside each other as though he wanted to

  be holding something else, something precious, but was

  afraid he might drop it. I lifted my chin and met his gaze.

  Without speaking, he unfolded his hands and pushed a

  piece of paper across the desk to me. Neither of us

  looked at the paper. We looked at each other.

  I didn't look at it when I touched the tips of my fingers to

  the paper, nor when I puled it toward me, or when I

  clasped it in my hand. I didn't look at it until I sat at my

  desk and laid it down in front of me.

  The list.

  I sat at my desk and looked at the list. It took up the entire

  sheet of ruled paper. It was insultingly long and infuriatingly

  detailed. He hadn't yeled at me yesterday, he'd done this

  instead, and it was infinitely worse than if he'd caled me on

  the carpet.

  It was also infinitely, inexplicably better.

  Not only did the paper have the projects he needed me to

  work on today, but it contained detailed instructions on

  duties I'd been performing without supervision for months.

  He'd left out breaks for me to eat and use the bathroom,

  but every other minute of the day had been accounted for.

  In high school I'd had a teacher who didn't like girls. I

  don't mean he was gay, just that for whatever misogynistic

  reason, he'd thought females somehow lesser creatures

  than males. Considering the boys in my class, I thought the

  man was an idiot, but at sixteen there's not much you can

  do about it but get through it. This teacher hadn't been

  impressed by good grades earned through hard work, and

  I'd had to work very hard for al my good grades. I've

  already said I wasn't the brain. Even so, I wasn't a bad

  student, and so when I got an A on my first test and this

  teacher, this man put in charge of young adults to mold

  them into something fit for future society, sneered and

  suggested I'd cheated off the boy next to me in order to

  have earned that grade, I learned a very important lesson.

  No matter how hard you worked, there was always going

  to be somebody out there who thought you were a fuckup.

  to be somebody out there who thought you were a fuckup.

  Part of me pictured myself storming into Paul's office,

  tossing the list on his desk and quitting in an outrage, but I

  knew there was no way I'd ever do it. I needed my job. I

  wanted it. I could put up with a lot more than a stupid list

  to keep it.

  So instead, I did what I'd done in high school with that

  dumbass teacher who thought girls couldn't be better than

  boys.

  I worked my ass off. It was a game, that day, going down

  that list and completing each task on it. And as the day

  wore on and I finished item after item, my sense of

  accomplishment grew. I'd never realized, actualy, how

  much work I accomplished in one day.

  I'd never thought to write down everything I did. Looking

  at it at the end of the day, this job no longer seemed a

  mindless drone. I'd done something. A lot of somethings,

  as a matter of fact, and when I took that list into Paul's

  office with each item boldly checked off and my neat

  annotations in the margins, there was no hiding my triumph.

  "Finished," I said and stepped back, waiting to see what

  "Finished," I said and stepped back, waiting to see what

  he'd say.

  But, unlike my teacher who'd have probably dismissed my

  efforts with a snide comment, my boss looked over the list,

  ticking off each item with the point of his pen.

  He looked up at me. I'd never noticed how blue his eyes

  were before. Paul held the paper with both hands.

  "Thank you, Paige," he said. "This is exemplary work."

  "Thank you," I said graciously.

  We did have an understanding, after al.

  Chapter 15

  Through the mailbox window I could see Alice, one of the

  women who ran the office. I could also see the thin edge

  of a folded note card.

  I puled it out with the tips of my fingers and held it by the

  edges