Clockwatchers

Temping is weird.

Someone who does his or her job (presumably) well goes away and you sit in their desk for a week and make a mess. Like Theressa, whose seat I am currently occupying. She has adorable children and a stylish black cold office jacket. She has a great deal of Big Apple pride, and one of those little yippy dogs. She wears sneakers to work and then changes into one of four pairs of black sensible shoes. Her rubber band use is astounding. Theressa, or someone she knows, has been to Bermuda and Bear Stearns. She goes to the gym on her lunch break and has allergies.

Next week, when Theressa returns, what will she know of me? She will know that I rarely answered her private line, and therefore respect her privacy. She will study my messy handwriting in the message book and imagine me scattered. Perhaps I will forget my water bottle, and she will notice my lipstick shade. And that I took copious notes in her notebook. And not so copious ones. She might ask next-door-Stephen what I was like, and he will surely say, "Young. Kept to herself. Very pleasant." Just like I do much less work than she does, I will leave behind little to no legacy.

Well, unless she sneaks a peek at my Internet history. Then it's all over.