by Jessica Lafortune
Heels and suits trickle past in a blur, heading toward the parking garage as I sit smoking on break between edits, working overtime, wondering how I became an executive typist to overpaid frat boys. Startled by a recurring thud, I turn toward the source and become mesmerized by a bird flying kamikaze runs into the glass walkway. Hitting the invisible ceiling repeatedly, his addled bird brain clearly cannot fathom a sky encased by glass, a world so unfair as to play tricks on his sensibilities. My charges appear; they don't smoke. Exhaling, I crush my cigarette and follow the heartless bastards inside the revolving door. Just before my pumps - the ones that helped me get this job - step onto the marble lobby floor, I wince at the sound of a tiny head smacking glass in the distance.
Jessica Lafortune is a teacher, tutor, and freelance writer. She lives in Florida surrounded by humans and canines who (barely) tolerate her obsessive reading and writing habits.