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work of Christopher Finchley.
     
     
    There’s one more thing I need to do today. I summon Angela into my office. She arrives clutching a reporter’s notebook and pen.
    “Hi, Mr. Wiley,” she says in her whispery young voice.
    “Russell’s fine,” I say. “Come on in.”
    Angela stands facing me across my desk. She’s wearing a tight white T-shirt and low-front stretch jeans. Her skin is a deep, dark brown. Her lips are painted a glittery purple. Between her breasts, her T-shirt is decorated with a small gold star.
    I gaze at her with studied impassivity, resting my chin on my thumbs, pressing my steepled fingers against my face. Angela seems to enjoy awkward silences as much as she enjoys every other moment of her day. I’m not sure she is aware how much she has stirred everybody up. As the executive supposedly managing her, I have already heard a litany of complaints from Barbara and other female colleagues who tell me she is:
    “Not focused on her work.”
    “Spending all day on the phone.”
    “Flirting with the mailroom guys.”
    “Nowhere to be found.”
    “Leaving nothing to the imagination.”
    So far, none of the men have complained, though I sense an air of melancholy in some cubicles each time Angela—with all her youth and beauty and happiness and potential—passes by.
    “I just thought I should check in with you,” I say. “Have a chat. See how you’re getting on.”
    Angela smiles, displaying perfect white teeth. “Everything’s great,” she says. “I really like it here.”
    “You’re fitting in OK? We’re keeping you busy?”
    “Oh yes,” she says. “Everyone has been really nice. I’m learning a lot.”
    I swivel from side to side in my chair. She sways slowly where she stands, a gentle rotation of the hips. Her eyes are incredibly round. She is breathing deeply through her nose. Barbara thinks it’s my responsibility to inform Angela that she’s a walking example of “What Not to Wear.” But I don’t quite see how I can bring the topic up without embarrassing either or both of us to a painful degree. Why the hell hasn’t one of the women in the office taken Angela aside and told her to cover herself up? What’s wrong with everyone? Why is everything left to me?
    “You don’t find it cold in here, do you?” I ask.
    “Not at all. It’s always too hot at my house. I love it here.”
    “That’s great. Perhaps you could make me two photocopies of each of these presentations?” I ask, handing her a stack of documents. “It’s just that the photocopier on this side is acting up.”
    “No problem, Mr. Wiley.”
    “Russell,” I say again. “No rush. Monday will be fine.”
    “Anything else…Russell?” she says, in a way that makes me appreciate how great men are sometimes brought low by the folly of lust.
    “That’s all. Thanks.” I watch her walk to the door, then blurt, “In case it does get too cold, you’ll notice a lot of the women here like to keep a sweater on the back of their chair.”

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    Sam’s in the shower when I get home. I sit on the couch, skimming through the mail, studying the charges on our joint credit card. As usual, she has spent several hundred dollars at local stores and various online merchants.
    “Are you getting changed, or are you going like that?” She’s standing with one towel wrapped around her body, another around her hair.
    “We’re going out?”
    “Jesus, Russell. It’s Shila’s birthday. We’re going to Magnolia with her and Judy, Zoe and Max.”
    “Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot.” I stand up, walk to her, open my arms to hold her.
    “Don’t touch me with all your subway germs,” she says. Her face is shiny with moisturizer.
    I head to the bathroom, wash my hands and face, roll on some deodorant, brush my teeth as well.
    In the bedroom, Sam’s sitting on her stool at her makeup mirror, plucking. I nuzzle the side of her neck, holding her through the towel. Gently. Innocently. Below the breasts.