She taps her red polished nails
on the polished hardwood surface of her desk to look busy.
She bites her red smeared lips to
convey the depth of her thought.
And she alternates between the two,
to keep others from suspecting...
She hasn't a clue what she's doing. Tap, tap, tap for a minute straight, then Bite, bite, bite after two of angry paper shuffling.
A deep sigh is her reflex when she hears anyone coming.
Every hour she gets up and softly mutters, pretending to be caught in the chaos of nine to five.
Then she clacks her heels down the tiled hallway, making sure her foot steps are heard; to the break room, the fridge, she fetches an oh-so-chic bottled water and she clack, clack, clacks her way back to her desk, sits down and stares at the face of her watch, waiting in that tick-tock chorus for two minutes to tock on by...
She can start tapping again; Tap, tap. Her act is played again. She lives in pretend.