At day’s end, having transcribed page after page of paper records into the computer, the personal secretary of J. Covington, sitting opposite the capacious suite, wraps up a long day of polishing her nails and gabbing on the phone. With Mr. Covington on a world cruise she has limited responsibilities. She takes the time to approach and bid adieu. She knows of my tag, my status and my penchants, Miss Teasdale having spread the word as Heather directed.
“Good night, Lenore,” she mocks. “I’m never sure whether to suggest your uniform makes you handsome or pretty,” pinching my cheek as she would a child.
Yes, she has scanned my tag, my loose blouse yielding to all those who care to learn of my secret life. She viewed the Club Deviance video, quite amused with my transition to girlhood.
Her
