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She is in love with a life that should have been different. She listens to her alarm clock sing, gets ready to join the other secretaries wondering just where and why and how they had landed in this maze of things, swinging on the complicated trapeze between typing, laundry, and poetry. On rare occasions a night out dancing. If it looks like sadness, it probably is. She read in a women’s magazine the results of a poll asking men what they thought of women who left their apartment with hair still wet from the shower. Low maintenance or lazy? She can’t remember the percentage of responses for each but was puzzled that nobody had thought of asking about busy. Two days ago, she found a glass vase in the shape of a swan with a single red rose at the grocery store. The rose is still fragrant and red. No wonder she loves life. It is not a mistake, even if everybody is doing everything all wrong. A man once told her she smiled too much. She’d always thought that’s what she was supposed to do. Meanwhile her poor ego sits in the corner, all folded up and sagging, knowing it would, as usual, get blamed for everything. Maybe all her sighs are dreaming of being songs. There. Her hair is still damp, but it is definitely time to go. If it looks like rage, it probably is. She folds it as small as possible, throws it into her briefcase on top of a hasty sandwich, and takes off into the day. The elevator smells like shoe polish. Is it too late to become a bitch.