2
Dancing at The Surf
Martha
I sat at my desk, looking up at the calendar and clock on the wall. It was Friday, January 20, 1956, four minutes to weekend and time for me to head home. I placed the stenographer's pad in the drawer and locked my desk, then pulled out my typewriter's canvas cover and spread it over my machine for the next few days. Mr. Rothman stood in his woolen suit, leaning against his office's door frame, lighting a stinky cigar yet again. He leered at me over the smelly plumes. I hated the scent of those horrible cigars. I'd made him well aware how much I despised cigar smoke but lit up anyway to make me mad. He and I had regular disputes, where he would chase me around his desk while I harped on about maintaining my professionalism, and he'd push it until I got angry
