This was why we came here tonight.
It happened before Judy had filled a single timecard. Lunch hour gives me my only chance for a smoke, but on this particular Friday, I was stuck instead responding to letters from school officials upset by typos in our latest textbook. “On behalf of Mr. Roper, I can assure you that the author meant to encourage these students to 'have a good time holding elections’ in their communities. Will an errata sheet suffice until the next edition appears?” Between frustrated strikes at my typewriter, I suddenly imagined I could hear crying coming from Sam the bookkeeper’s door. I halted, pencil in teeth, straining to identify the source. It might have been Sam’s chair shifting. Why wasn’t he at lunch? I rose and approached the wall outside his office. A filing cabinet stood near it, but not so near as to prevent me from wedging my body in the surplus space, and pressing my ear to plaster. I waited. With my chest to the wall, my own heart was the loudest sound. The file cabinet chilled me through my skirt. There was hardly enough room to draw a breath. Sam whispered something. A gasp. Sharp breathing. Was it mine?
It happened before Judy had filled a single timecard. Lunch hour gives me my only chance for a smoke, but on this particular Friday, I was stuck instead responding to letters from school officials upset by typos in our latest textbook. “On behalf of Mr. Roper, I can assure you that the author meant to encourage these students to 'have a good time holding elections’ in their communities. Will an errata sheet suffice until the next edition appears?” Between frustrated strikes at my typewriter, I suddenly imagined I could hear crying coming from Sam the bookkeeper’s door. I halted, pencil in teeth, straining to identify the source. It might have been Sam’s chair shifting. Why wasn’t he at lunch? I rose and approached the wall outside his office. A filing cabinet stood near it, but not so near as to prevent me from wedging my body in the surplus space, and pressing my ear to plaster. I waited. With my chest to the wall, my own heart was the loudest sound. The file cabinet chilled me through my skirt. There was hardly enough room to draw a breath. Sam whispered something. A gasp. Sharp breathing. Was it mine?
[CONTINUED]
You are viewing page three of "Edith/Judith," a fashion photostory whose accompanying text draws inspiration from pulp magazine stories.
CREDITS Models: Tonya Smith, Carmine Leighton; Hair: Corrie Horacek; Clothing by Sartorial Splendor; Photographs, text: Tom Seiler.
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