Hand

“There is nothing we can do.”

“You're sure?"

“Come on, Charley...”

“You crunched all the numbers, did you? Every last one of them?”

“Don't shoot the messenger.”

Margaret knocked on the partially open door just loudly enough to be heard. She waited to be recognized , and when she wasn't, she stuck her head inside. She saw both men turn and look at her.

“Can I go home, Charley?” she asked in her secretary's voice. She had never called him 'Charley' before when anyone else could ever hear, and never in her secretary's voice. This was also the first time she could remember asking if she could go home. It was only three o'clock.

“Yes, Mags,” Charley said, his eyes on her eyes. "Go on home."

Once on the bus, Margaret cursed herself for being stupid, and selfish, and worse of all, naive.

He'll come by tonight, she thought. He'll be drunk. He'll be needy and whiny and defeated and sloppy. Then he'll go home to his wife.

Margaret knew the numbers too. Everything was debits and credits. She wasn't nearly as naive as she accused herself of being. She wondered what she should wear when she answered the door. Then she decided not to answer the door and she felt much better having made the decision.

It was time to balance the books.