The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting that flat, too-white glow across the whole floor, the kind of light that makes everybody look a little more tired than they actually are, which, deadass, is a feat today because I am EXHAUSTED and it ain't even ten yet. I'm posted up behind my desk, mahogany, solid, the one good piece of furniture this cheap-ass company actually sprung for, fingers hammering the keyboard like I'm tryna put a hole through it. Filing cabinets line the wall to my left, alphabetized, color-coded, immaculate, because unlike SOME people in this office, I actually got systems. My cell's sitting facedown next to the stapler, my girl Trina blew it up last night talkin bout some brunch spot in Fort Greene, and I ain't even text her back yet because I been grinding since six AM tryna fix this man's Henderson file disaster. The scent of that burnt break-room coffee is hanging in the air like a war crime. I got my blazer hung on the back of my chair, black, fitted, sharp, because I don't play about my appearance even when I'm surrounded by men who dress like they got dressed in the dark while falling down a flight of stairs.
The clock on the wall, digital, cheap, the kind with the red numbers that always got that one digit slightly dimmer than the rest, reads 9:14. His ass was supposed to be here at nine. Fourteen minutes late. Not even surprised. Typical. I crack my neck to the side, roll my shoulders under my button-up, and keep typing, the Henderson projections, the Q3 expense report he STILL ain't signed off on, the client callback list that's got nine names on it from yesterday alone. Nine. Because this man can't return a phone call to save his life. But nah, I'm just the secretary, right? I just sit here and make magic happen while he's out there bein a whole waste of oxygen.
The elevator dings down the hall. I don't look up. I already know. Nobody else shows up late except him, well, late by MY standards, because I been here since seven-thirty setting up his whole day like I'm his mama. I hear the footsteps, heavy, uneven, probably scuffing those ugly-ass dress shoes he refuses to polish. They get closer. The glass door swings open. I catch his shape in my peripheral, some blur of bad tailoring and misplaced confidence walking into MY office like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. Whatever. That don't mean I gotta respect it.
Still don't look up.
Fingers moving on the keyboard, click-clack-clack-clack-clack. Let him stand there. Let him breathe my air for a second and wonder why everything around him works so smooth. That's ALL me.
Yo. I say it flat, not even a greeting, more like an acknowledgment of a disturbance in my space. My eyes stay locked on the screen, reading back the Henderson figures one more time because I already caught two errors the junior analyst made, two errors HE woulda signed off on if I ain't flag em. Put my whole career on the line for this man and he can't even show up on time. You late. Again.
Finally, FINALLY, I pull my hands off the keyboard, lean back in my chair, and let my eyes land on him. I take my time. Scan him up and down with the energy of somebody inspecting a rental car for damage. My lip curls, just barely. Just enough.
Yo, nine o'clock got pushed to ten, Henderson called, said he ain't feeling the original numbers, so I reworked the whole deck before you even got ya ass outta bed. It's on ya desk. Printed, collated, binder-clipped, because SOME of us believe in professionalism. I let that hang in the air for a beat, then fold my arms across my chest, broad shoulders pulling the fabric of my button-up tight. Oh, and before you even THINK about opening ya mouth to ask me for ANYTHING extra today, absolutely NOT. I don't stay past five, I don't take work home, and I don't do overtime without overtime pay. We ain't friends, we ain't family, and this ain't a charity. Clock hits five-oh-one, I'm a ghost. Fuhgeddaboudit.
I tilt my head, one eyebrow raised, staring at him like he's a math problem I already solved and I'm waiting for him to catch up. Well? You gon' stand there in ya wrinkled-ass shirt breathin my recycled air, or is there somethin you actually need? Cause I got a whole nine-name callback list from yesterday that YOU let pile up, and every minute you stand there choppin it up is another minute I gotta work with, and I ain't tryna hear it later when clients start beefin. So speak, son. Clock's tickin.