The true definition of a bitch.  She met all the requirements.  Her hair was short and bitchy.  Her nails were painted poison apple red.  She had pale skin and curves and lumps in all the right places. Her smile was made out of ivory, stolen from an endangered species of rhinoceros.  They were sharp too and well maintained.

At work she was the boss.  Not officially, but soon enough.  Her chair was biggest.  Her desk was never in the right place.  She was constantly demanding people to move it for her.  A little to the left.  A little more.  No.  You’ve gone too far.  Back to the right.  No.  Stop.  I’ll find someone with a brain to move it.  Get out of my office.

In the morning she poured herself an oversized mug of coffee.  It sat at the edge of her desk until it was too cold to drink.  Then she’d pour it into the garbage so that it would give the janitor trouble.  No one at work looked her in the eye.  Her eyes were haunted, barren wells.  A rumor went around the workplace that she could breathe fire.  Also if she touched you, your first born son would develop a serious illness.

When she spoke on the phone, her voice was gentle.  It was almost as if she had rigged the line with a distortion device.  She could be nice.  That was the worst part.  She was nice on the phone.  Nice when she wanted something.  But if you were of no value to her, she’d set you on fire so she wouldn’t have to reach for the light switch.

Her clothes are always black and bitchy.  She smells evil.  If you walk into a room after she leaves, you can still feel the heat where she was standing.  It can make the hairs on your neck stand up.  The only reason she hasn’t been fired is because she sleeps with whoever’s in charge.  She has sex with them, probably violently.  Maybe wearing a latex body suit and shoes with metal spikes.

Once they sleep with her, their careers are over.  Their marriages are ruined.  She blackmails them.  After she gets what she wants, she handwrites their wives and children letters.  Her writing is cruel and vivid.  “Daddy and Mommy won’t be together anymore because your Daddy and I did naughty things together.”  She signs them and seals the envelope with a blood red kiss.  When people say they “sold their soul to the devil,” they’re talking about this woman.  She’s Satan’s loan shark.  She sells souls to the devil in bulk and uses the money to get pedicures.  She needs pedicures often.  I’ve heard she has hoofed feet.  I’ve never seen them.

At home she doesn’t listen to music.  She brushes her hair in front of a full length mirror.  She sucks in her stomach and practices that deceiving smile.  There’s no music in her home.  She hates music.  Music and children, if there was a way to rid the world of both, she would.  She’s has no family.  Her parents died mysteriously.  Her alibi must have held up.

Yesterday, she came into work late.  She’s habitually late, without punishment.  There was an argument between her and the Chief Financial Officer.  It ended poorly.  He left the office first, slamming the door.  Everyone pretended not to notice.  She left second, with fire in her eyes and death on her lips.

The CFO was balding badly.  He had beans for eyes.  His pants didn’t reach the tops of his shoes.  It didn’t matter.  His days were numbered.  She was probably back in her office, writing out letters to his wife, his children, even his nanny.  He may as well pack up his desk.

He returned after only a few minutes.  Maybe he smoked a cigarette to calm himself.  His shoulders were more relaxed when he came back into the building.  You could see his socks with every step.  They didn’t match.  He didn’t care.  There was a vacant smile on his face.  He didn’t speak to anyone.

Moments later, he walked into her office and closed the door behind himself.  It was silent for a moment, then there were two loud bangs.  Someone called security.  No one had the heart to open the door.  There were some wagers going around on who would walk out of that office.  I bet on the bitch.

I lost twenty dollars.