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Courtney Eldridge

Foley Foley

Seems like I spend half my life in the conference room anymore, and Foley was taking his own sweet time, tidying this stack of folders with his mouth open like he was humored and about to say something, and then he’d close his mouth. I assumed it was about me, whatever was in the folders, or I assume he wanted me to think it was about me, or worry what he had on me, but whatever. For once in my life, I just wanted to get back to class, so, finally, I said, Just out of curiosity, what’s your first name, Foley? And he said, Foley, and then he started twisting his thumbs, slowly. Very slowly. It was distracting, but I didn’t look. I just stared back at him, and then I said, Foley Foley? Is that like Humphrey Humphrey? And then he stopped twirling his thumbs for a second: So you can read, he asked, smirking. I wasn’t sure, he said, looking down at the stack before he pressed his index against the files, separating them, smirking, like he has some inside joke. God, I hate that smirk. Funny, I said, smiling: I was just thinking the same thing about you. You read the book, right, or did just watch that movie, too? Then he took the middle file, pulled it out, and tilted it, so I could just see the handwriting, but i couldn’t make out the words, before he opened the file, and he began reading out loud.

Note: It’s too antagonistic. It needs to be quieter, calmer. But it’s a start.

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