Megan Hart - Switch

"They al quit?"

"No. Some he fired." She raised a brow at me. "They

were the lucky ones, if you ask me."

I checked my watch. Five minutes left before I had to

rouse myself from my postlunch lethargy and head back to

the office. Time for a snack cake, if I wanted to stuff my

face with processed sugar, or a cup of coffee from the

communal pot. I didn't want the calories or the germs. I

did crack the top on my second can of cola, though.

"Why were they lucky?" I asked mildly, not so much

because I cared, but to make conversation.

"The ones who quit had to put up with a lot more garbage,

that's al. I heard the last girl he had went to work at some

grocery store after she left here, that's how desperate she

was to get out."

"That's pretty desperate." I stretched. As I started to get up from the table, pain sliced the back of my thigh.

Brenda startled at my cry. "What? What's wrong?"

I craned my neck to look over my shoulder, my leg stuck

out behind me like I was a balet dancer getting ready to

perform some complicated dance move. My skirt hit just

above the knee and I could make out the ragged line of a

run in my stocking, but nothing else. "Something snagged

me."

"It's the chair," Brenda said. "It's ful of splinters."

I rubbed the spot stil stinging and smarting just behind my

knee. "I can't tel if it's in there or not."

"Shoot. I gotta run. Wil you be okay?" Brenda stuffed her

trash into the plastic box where a few scraps of lettuce stil

clung and tossed it al into the garbage can.

"Sure. Of course." Sort of like a bee sting, the pain had

turned from sharp to a dul throb. I was more upset about

the panty hose I'd have to replace.

In the bathroom I used the ful-length mirror to check out

my injury, but could stil see nothing. I ran my fingers over

my skin around the sore spot but felt nothing poking

through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

off the ruined panty hose and went back to the office.

"Just in time," Paul said from the doorway between his

office and my smal work space. "I was beginning to think

you weren't going to make it."

I looked at him sharply. "I'm hardly ever late, Paul."

"Oh, I know you're not." He glanced at his watch. "C'mon, it's time."

I pushed Brenda's warnings to the back of my mind. This

was the best job I'd ever had, and while I never assumed it

would be the best I'd ever get, I wasn't in any hurry to lose

it.

My task during the teleconference was to type up the

notes. Paul not only had notoriously bad handwriting but

he was a hunt-and-peck typist. As he got settled into his

chair, I picked up my AlphaSmart Neo, the portable

keyboard/word processor I used rather than a notepad

and pen. Paul might be a slow writer, but he could be a

superfast talker, and typing was the only way I could keep

up.

I couldn't decipher half of what they talked about. Profit

margins, balance sheets, long-range planning. I was

ignorant, and fine with that. I didn't need to understand

what they were saying to take it down. In fact, the less I

knew the better, because my mind could wander while my

fingers kept track.

Not so many years ago I'd have been expected to hover

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

and the curved arch of my raised eyebrows. But I didn't

move, and I didn't speak.

"There," Paul said in a low voice. Through the tissue the

warmth of his fingers pressed against my suddenly chiled

skin. "I can see it. Stay right there, Paige. Let me find

some tweezers."

I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

apart and far enough toward the table's center I had to

lean forward just a little. I didn't want to know what I

looked like, my skirt riding up the backs of my bare thighs

and my face flushed.

"It's a big one," Paul said in a moment. "Hold stil."

I pressed my lips down on a squeak trying to escape at the

touch of the cold metal tweezers. Paul's hand curled

around my knee, holding it stil, while he probed and

puled.

I felt the splinter slide free, snagging my flesh, and the

further slow trickle of my blood painting a line down my

leg. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blurred

woman in the table, the one with my face looking as I'm

sure lovers had often glimpsed, but I never had.

The soft press of tissue again slid up my leg as Paul wiped

away the blood. I heard the crinkle of paper and his

fingers smoothed something on me. An adhesive bandage.

I could feel it puling the soft hairs I never managed to

shave. Then the stroke of his fingers along the secret place

at the back of my knee, so swift I might have imagined it.

"Al done."

"Al done."

I turned. Paul had already stepped away. In one hand, he