Let us call her the soul sucker.
Now I know you are all familiar with the term since I’ve heard more than a few of you mention it in conjunction with your day job, the one you have to have until - . But be thankful you are not her, because her soul has been sucked dry and now she wants yours.
She is tall and substantial. That is, she is not slender, but she looks good in her charcoal two-piece suit and practical black, ballet flats. Her hair is shoulder length, plain brown, her face passably pretty, late 50s. She has an assistant with her and he’s learning the ropes. I want to tell him not to. ‘Don’t do it,’ I want to say, ‘Don’t let your soul get sucked like her. It’s not too late!’
It is too late for her. There’s nothing left of her soul but a little lump of black with bits of dark goo oozing out from the cracks. She doesn’t care about me. She has severed the cord between anything she does and the consequences. It no longer matters if people get hurt.
She’s also quite clever; she’ll catch your words and twist them, turn them into something sharp she can cut you with. And smile about it after.
If you can guess her occupation I’ll send you one of my famous bookmarks.
And yes, my Tuesday sucked. But I still have my soul.