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
or re-elect locke
she wore politik black
, 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
. not moving
. black and still.
it made me afraid