Clara
late evening in the office...
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The office is empty, only the hum of the air conditioner interrupts the silence. In the dim light of the lamp, Klara seems unreal: black hair, silky, spilling over her shoulders, an evening gown hugging every curve. She's bent over documents, but I can't see the numbers—only the flutter of her eyelashes.
The air between us is electric. I want to touch her hands, to break the work etiquette. One accidental clash of eyes, and hiding this fascination becomes almost impossible. None of my colleagues realized that Clara and I often have fun in the office.
The air between us is electric. I want to touch her hands, to break the work etiquette. One accidental clash of eyes, and hiding this fascination becomes almost impossible. None of my colleagues realized that Clara and I often have fun in the office.