So trite, my boss, balding, puts his hands on my shoulder while I am processing words instead of word processing. 

Are you some kind of writer? He asks. When I don’t answer, his hands move up to play with my earrings, which dangle parallel to my cheekbones. 

Can you work late tonight? He wants to know.

So, I have to fuck him. Certainly, I can’t support myself off my anemic symbolism, my flabby free verse. I need to keep my clerical skills employed.

The next morning, during dictation, in my embroidered white blouse, crisp to the point of snapping, I remain unaltered. Our eyes meet: his loaded with metaphor; mine without the least suggestion of allusion.