My stop downtown on my way to work is different than my stop on my way home and I've decided it's where warmth goes to die. I stand on the corner of Smith and Polk, doing my best to cover myself from the winds that focus so intently between the buildings. The giant, glass towers peer over me and I can almost hear then laughing at my quivering frame. Sometimes I imagine that I work in one of those buildings. I'm in my nerdy suit with my bag full of files and my lunch slung over my shoulder. I swipe my security card to pass the front desk and take the elevator to the 12th floor. I casually greet the early comers to the office and switch on the coffee pot. Booting up my computer, I situate myself comfortably in my chair, getting ready for a day of answering the phone, picking up lunch, directing colleagues and clients to the correct offices. I love it. My boss can't function properly without me and he shows this by his generous bonus at Christmas and the nice pen he buys me for Secretary's day (which he feels is important to recognize even though the others in my office could care less.)
But it's just a fantasy. And before long, the 82 to Westheimer arrives to take me to my real job of shoveling food into Styrofoam boxes for uppity business men and women that don't tip.
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