The Intern

As a 22-year-old intern, I‘m thrilled to please him. "Is this it right here?" I ask, noticing a pile of disheveled papers hanging off the edge of his desk. As I take a seat, I hear the sound of the blinds being closed. I look back and see the Mayor lock the door. My hands shake as I lift the papers off the desk. When I turn them over, I see that they are, in fact, the speech addressing the incoming freshmen class. "I‘m, um, really good at writing. I always ace every exam and essay in English courses. I could probably line edit this for you?" I ask. "Sure," he says. His voice is deep and echoes like a drum. It makes me all warm. He takes a seat across from me. I lay the papers down and grab a ballpoint pen with red ink. As I pop off the top, I notice that the Mayor is merely watching me right now. Behind his ruthless stare, I can tell his mind is working overtime. He wants something from me. And, it isn‘t a matter of if, but how he‘ll take it. "Why don‘t you come over, while you work on that," he says. "That way, I can read it, as well." "Oh, um s-sure," I say, jumping to my feet. I scurry across the desk and place the papers back down in front of him. Then, I kneel over the desk and press my elbows against the wood to hold myself up as I work. I begin dragging the tip of the pen over each line of the opening paragraph. It‘s difficult to concentrate on the content when I can sense the Mayor‘s eyes drinking in my rear‘s shape and size. He makes no attempts to hide it. This is his office-his world. And, he knows it. I know it too.