Raymond, exhibiting all the shortsighted impulsiveness of a lepidopterist who mistakes moth pupae for those of butterflies, has hired a new assistant. Her name is Sharon and her eyelashes are longer than her curriculum vitae; her lipstick redder than the red pen with which Raymond strikes through the names of the other, unprepossessing candidates. 'Sure, they have more experience," he explains. "But Sharon brings freshness and youthful pizazz and we can certainly use some of that around here. Plus she's really cute."
I can tell Raymond is already dreaming of Sharon dolled up like Marilyn Monroe, heavy breathing her way through "Happy Birthday Mr. CFO" when he turns sixty next year. He imagines she will order a cake decorated with innuendos in icing and organize a Viagra themed card. Such puerile displays of office flirtation are what Raymond's aging but still sophomoric mind means by 'youthful pizazz.'
He's never been married and I can't remember the last time he even dated anyone. I suppose he can be excused his peccadillos provided they don't affect the rest of us. Fortunately, he's more of a balding sloth than a silver fox, so there's probably not much for HR to worry about on that score. And anyway, the receptionist tells me Sharon called back this afternoon and rejected the job.
Apparently she got a better offer elsewhere or we just couldn't pay her enough to occupy a cubicle with Raymond all day. It seems our business can afford experience but not pizazz, for which I am truly grateful. Meanwhile, the sex pheromones visibly evaporate from Raymond's sweaty body as he receives the news, rising like the last wisps of pale smoke from a cigarette crushed in an ashtray. His attention slowly returns from its erotic interlude to the company's ledger books, from dollar bills stuffed in garter belts to invoices emailed to clients, not that there's many of them these days of course.
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