Pretty as a Postcard
She is a good secretary.
That is all she hears from them, and the most they can bring themselves to say. A good listener, a quick thinker; without a doubt, the prettiest one around. Or so they tell him, laughing politely — and she, from behind the door, has to listen.
From her choice of words to the veil of her make-up, she must fill the whole day with an act. The way she looks, she speaks, she seems to be — that is what traces the future of her work, and weighs, in their minds, the whole value of her image.
Until she makes it outside, her steps stay controlled; it is only past the office, past the doorstep, that she can quietly go back to being herself.
Her voice and her lashes follow one calculated tempo. Her grace is rich and predictable, no more, no less than they expect it to be. Few words are spoken; the the rest floats in the safety of her chest, forever abandoned to the same prison she is in.
She loathes her beauty, she holds back a sigh — and yet she stays, a cream dress alone in the forest of suits.
Like a frame on the wall, she waits, listening to what they have to say. He was so capable, so quick, to find such a gem as his assistant; he deserves praise, from all of them.
Her patience, in fact, is that of precious and timeless things. She is the finest ornament on the maze of his desk — her task is to shine as he is showered with compliments, rightful owner of her reflected light.
She has to listen — forever wondering why, forever left without an answer. Still, secretly, she nurtures hope. In the folds of his roaring mind, within the fire that makes him churn out the days of his life, she can see something is different.
And it is only different, actually, when it comes to her.
It is the warm glow in his eyes — slighter, yet stronger than the many vain layers of his gaze. It is that glimpse far beneath the surface, the glimpse he has in store for her alone; it is, in his very own fleeting kind, the brilliance of respect. And it is just enough, for her, to chase away all that is unimportant.
She knows; that is all she can ask from him. Not much, not right yet. It is just enough. However, coming from him, it is immense — the thought warms her heart often, in the cold middle of the working hours.
And if she still has hope to stand out, lonely woman in a timeless fight, it is just for that glow; it is for the unique way he speaks her name, the gentle request from a man that never asks — Caroline.
Did I ever mention I have the strongest feelings about what it means to be a woman? In her time, and Cave Johnson's secretary to boot?
It was the quote in the title to inspire this whole story. I hope I managed to convey the meaning fully.