Switch

on the edge of my seat, pen poised over my steno pad

while I took vigorous shorthand. Typing was so much

easier. I'd learned shorthand in school, one of those skils

they stil found necessary to teach even if nobody would

actualy use it. The clacking of my nails, kept to a practical

length, tap-tapping on the keys couldn't replace the

sensual scratch-scratch of a pen sliding across paper, in

my opinion, but typing was much faster, and being able to

download the document directly into my computer for

processing was better than having to retype it al.

The cal ended abruptly, at least to me. I looked over the

last few sentences and saw I'd actualy typed the

goodbyes without paying attention. God bless multitasking.

Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'Wel, that's over.

Thank you, Paige.'

Thank you, Paige.'

Brenda could say what she liked. Paul might be particular,

but he was also very polite. 'You're welcome.'

I'd been sitting with both feet planted firmly on the floor

with the keyboard on my lap. When I shifted to get up, the

sudden flaring sting of pain from my invisible splinter

surged so fiercely I gasped. The keyboard fel to the thick

carpet with a muffled thump, and I bent to grab it at once,

hoping it hadn't been damaged.

Paul had already rounded the desk. 'Paige, are you al

right?'

'Yeah, I just…I caught my leg on something earlier. I think

there's a splinter.'

The keyboard hadn't broken, thank God. I put it on the

conference table pushed off to the side of Paul's desk.

Warmth trickled down my calf and I strained to see it.

Blood.

'You're not fine, you're bleeding. Stay right there. Don't

move.'

Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

want me staining it, so I did as he said for the thirty

seconds it took him to grab a handful of tissues from his

desk.

He ought to have handed them to me so I could tend my

own wound. Like compliments and free lunch, taking care

of my boo-boo was probably a no-no. So why didn't I

protest when Paul told me to put my hands on the table?

Or when he knelt on that pretty beige carpet and slid the

soft tissue from just above my anklebone al the way to the

back of my knee?

I said nothing because no sound would come out. I didn't

move because my fingers refused to do more than twitch

on the polished surface of the table. I could see the faint

shadow of my reflection in it, the startled O of my mouth