she had a desk for people to flock around, a barrier between a queen and subjects. her job, maybe, to set the priorities, to hand out the delegations. her window out onto the street was the only one not obscured by gore/lieberman or re-elect locke signs.

she wore politik black, conservative, and black leslie miller helmet hair. she was neat, spotlessly, no creases, so unsurprising she warranted a second, third glance.

she leaned onto her desk. her head was in her hands, forehead inches from stacks of paperwork. she was alone amidst boxes and piles of figures and demographics. not moving. black and still.

it made me afraid.

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