To her frightened demeanor

As I walked back to my desk I noticed the new woman who works directly behind me.

She looks confused at the keyboard as if asking for instructions; pressing keys with careful single-finger movements. About two hours ago she introduced herself to me; Deborah, I think. Since then, I’m moved past her a few times on my way to Heather’s desk or the washroom. She always looks up when I return with a furrowed shrug, like she knows that she’s supposed to do something but she’s not sure what. Every so often I hear a quick breath and a pause. That lingering non-statement of hope that she hasn’t done something wrong. Not so shortly there after, she chews on ice from a Dixie cup and starts on the keyboard again. Premeditated ‘clacks’ that she hopes will produce the quota she’s supposed to reach.

Much earlier today I heard that she was a temp in the truer sense of the word. She and

another woman from membership discuss how she will only be here for two days to complete the workload prescribed of her. She replied with an almost faked assurance, that she knew what she was doing and the task would be complete. Since then it’s hard not to hear her question herself. Which program was it again? A stuttered hand moving to click and drag, file>open>Sessions2005.xts. Wrong file.