5. Alba
FIVE
ALBA
The black shoe tray gleamed with newness from its spot of honor next to the door.
Two pairs of boots—cleaned of any remaining gravel and salt—sat in perfect alignment on top of the plastic tray.
And in the corner closest to me, a note leaned against the steel toe of the nearest boot.
It was addressed to “Ms. Cleaning Woman.”
I scanned the room. The balled-up note that I’d written was gone.
The desk was relatively tidy, with stacks of files lined up and a few square inches of desk showing in the gaps between them.
There was a scent in the air—rich male cologne that made me want to inhale deeply—as if someone had only just left the room.
I hesitated on the threshold of the office, knowing I’d already overstepped with the first message I’d left here. I’d gotten carried away by the injustice of my life these days, the difficulty of scraping by.
But he hadn’t demanded that I be fired.
And he’d bought a shoe tray.
Tiptoeing inside, I bent over and picked up the note:
Ms. Clean,
I trust this is a satisfactory solution to our mutual problem. Please refrain from leaving paper debris on my office floor.
Regards,
V.A.
My heart thumped. This was exactly like the hundred-dollar tips that Vaughn insisted on leaving me. A gift wrapped in disdain.
I gritted my teeth and scribbled my own words below his, then left the note in the middle of his desk.
Then I got back to work.