I still remember the way she walked into my office, which is a good sign, as it only happened this morning.
I looked her up and down; mostly down, I’m pretty tall.
She had a face.
Her lips were saying hello but her eyes were telling a very different story, blinking in morse code about the assassin in the air vent.
She knew she had me right where she wanted me: at my desk, in my office, at 11am, the time we had scheduled for this appointment.
As she leaned in close I couldn’t help noticing the kind of details that would give you an uncomfortable degree of insight into the precise contours of the author’s sexual obsessions. It was awkward.
I promised her I’d do whatever I could, because promising to do whatever I couldn’t sounded dangerously illogical.
She reached over and took a swig from the bottle on my desk in a way that was clearly intended to be alluring and transgressive but honestly just felt a little rude, and besides there could have been absolutely anything in that bottle, window cleaner, who knows. As it happens it was only water — I’m trying to stay hydrated and kick the booze habit I picked up after the untimely death of my partner — but she still knocked it back and grimaced just for show.
This Dane meant trouble. (She was from Denmark).
Tags:
#overly literal interpretations #death mention
Brinens and Things 