She was crying in the copier room when I came in, and she looked up at me with moist blue eyes, like pansies under the rain.
I couldn’t remember her name. Too D*mn Young isn’t a name. Even my name is not that weird. Crying like that, she looked about sixteen. No makeup. Blond hair down to the middle of her back. Very pretty. Maybe one of our high school interns?
And then she grabbed a tissue from box on the shelf, wiped her eyes, blinked at me and said, “Oh, Mr. Rumple, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know– It’s just I don’t know what to do. This promotion.”
This story is now part of a collection for sale here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09W3WBJYJ