Melissa
SONNIE’S bought herself some non-standard cleaning clothes. I’ve seen them advertised on TV, extra strong for extra shine. She doesn’t mention it, but I see them when I look in on her wiping down the glass table in suite four.
I’m hurt for a moment that Sonnie would be so out to win, but it’s for the best. Definitely. It means I can whoop her ass without any guilt.
Being here, among the corporate glamour of floor sixteen, has only fanned the flames. Yesterday afternoon I was stuck in an alcove between suites seven and eight, and I managed to stare at him through the glass for ten minutes straight.
He doesn’t smile much, not that I’ve seen. Not with colleagues, or with clients. He doesn’t smile when he’s on the phone, or even when an assistant drops a Starbucks in between meetin
