I was fairly new on the job. I’d been there just long enough to know there was a woman, my manager who would come downstairs, jump on her broom and terrorize the entire wing.
She was a pretty woman, which made her more frightening. You could hear her coming, stomping along in her high heeled shoes. If her pace was quick, you knew she was coming for someone.
When she launched into a tirade, everyone would stop to listen. And after she left, no one worked, they were all busy talking about her.
I was located in the furthest cubicle from the elevator. One day the doors opened and the click, clack of her high heels echoed on the floor.
I knew she was coming for me.
She snapped around the corner, her skirt swishing with each step as she quickly narrowed the distance between us.
Her entire face was pursed, on the verge of venomous explosion.
“Deidra,” She spit out my name like my Dad did when I used his stamp collection to post Valentines Day cards in grade school.
“Wait,” I cut in, “I know you have a problem and I’m here to help you. But you need to go somewhere else and wipe that look off your face and get control of yourself before you speak to me again.”
She gasped.You could hear a pen drop and none did.
She started laughing. “Am I really that bad?” she asked.
“Yeah, you scare grown men.”
That year I dressed up like her for Halloween. Hey, I can ride a broom too.