Black shoes click into the sterile office.

The sound bounces off the walls and scatters around the room like rubber balls.

I hear her before I see her.

She sounds dark, official.

Authority on heels with a briefcase in hand.

Black shoes enter my cubicle, followed by a red dress.

Doom approaches,

Opening the door with a screech of the judgement bells.

She enters the office.

Her sharp, blatant perfume pricks my nose with needles of superiority.

Bright red lips form a practiced, plastic, politician smile.

Silence stretches between us,

A wall made of rough, textured bricks of fear and anticipation.

I extend the olive branch,

Greeting her politely.

Black shoes nods her head,

Glances around the office,

And leaves,

A queen with nothing to say to her worker bee.