Adjusting

“Are you sure?” I puz­zled over the list of names in front of me.

Gert nod­ded, hitch­ing up her top for about the eigh­teenth time since we had sat down. Seri­ous­ly, I have nev­er been able to fig­ure out why girls wear things they are unable to keep up with­out con­stant atten­tion-draw­ing adjust­ment. I sup­pose it is some latent patri­archy-inflict­ed objec­ti­fi­ca­tion or some­thing, but from where I sit, if she doesn’t want her boobs to fall out, she should have left that in the clos­et and picked some­thing sen­si­ble. It’s not even like I hadn’t seen them before; heck, it was pret­ty good odds that almost every­one in this par­tic­u­lar Star­bucks had, too, at some point.

I shuf­fled the papers a few times for good mea­sure, then looked up at her. “So, all of these have expressed inter­est?” She nod­ded again, then hooked her thumbs under the fab­ric of her sun­dress, right at the armpits, and did anoth­er squirm­ing shim­my. I sighed. If all of the names on this list rep­re­sent­ed a seri­ous rival for the posi­tion, my future as pres­i­dent of the cam­pus Shape-Note Soci­ety might not be as secure as I had hoped. I was going to have to change my cam­paign, kick it up a notch or three.

“Thanks, Gert,” I said, hand­ing her back the doc­u­ments. “I’ll let you get those back before any­one at the office miss­es them.” I stood up and smiled grim­ly at her. “I guess I have some calls to make.” It was time to get serious.