The Desk by Dionne Foley

She paced, no not paced, she couldn’t pace. Pacing would mean she had lacked any emotional control. He wouldn’t allow such a thing. She patrolled the room, yes patrolled. She couldn’t help wishing for a clock or even a window somewhere in the room. There was a lone hallway, the only way in and out of the carpeted space. The carpet that she was slowly wearing down with each step of her patrol.

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