Tom came on a Thursday this week. It’s frustrating, almost, that it was this week, because I really tried to do a good job. I tried and tried and it didn’t even matter.

Tom usually comes on Fridays, and I always know when it’s him. I can tell from the way he turns the key in the lock, so slowly, and from the way that he rubs his work boots on the mat by the front door. He’s so methodical, which is one of the things I like about him. Every week he turns the key in the lock, rubs his shoes on the mat and then comes right over to see me. He leaves his jacket on— he always wears his jacket, even in the summer when the AC breaks and I have to listen to that awful whirr all day. I don’t know how he does it, because the heat always makes me want to take off all my clothes and lie down on the ground and do absolutely nothing all day. That’s a joke, of course— I wouldn’t do that.

The reason I have to sit in the house all day, even in the summer with the broken AC, is because of my job. Every morning there’s a knock at the door and a big brown box is waiting there, and its my job to take the papers in the box and sort them. I don’t know how the box gets there, or who delivers it. One time I stayed up all night staring out the window to try to find out, but all I saw was cars, the flickering light at the corner and, occasionally, Mrs. Horner walking her dog around the block. I must have fallen asleep or something, because I blinked and the box was there. That week I did a really bad job, and Tom came on a Wednesday. A Wednesday! I shudder when I think of it. So now I just accept the box and its mysteries, pick it up off the curb at 8 AM sharp and get to sorting. I even moved my bed to the front of the house, so that I’d spend less time moving around.

Sorting the papers was really hard at first, but now I’ve got it down to a science. First, I take all the papers out of the box and put them in ten even piles in a big circle on the floor. Then I break down the box and store it for Tom to take away before he leaves. This is something else I like about him, because without him the house would fill with boxes. Only then do I sit in the middle of my circle and begin. The green papers are easiest to notice (not because they are the color green, but because they say GREEN in big letters in the corner), so I sort them first. They go my lap, and the rest in two piles next to me. Tom says that the reason I am so good at sorting is because I have long arms, and that if his arms were longer he’d help me. After the green papers are together, I put them aside and begin searching for the next type. I often think about the best order in which to sort, and I think I figured it out. It goes: green papers, yellow papers (these ones are colored), papers with a picture of a naked lady on the side, memos, papers with perforated corners, and finally jury summons. Why Tom needs so many of these papers (or why the courts require his presence so urgently) I do not know.

Yesterday, disaster struck! I was about halfway through the yellow papers, admiring the feel of them against my skin, when Mrs. Horner’s dog barked and I momentarily lost my concentration. My arm collided with one of the piles of not-green-or-yellow papers and they flew everywhere! I yelled an obscenity and stood up to catch the falling papers. Unfortunately, my legs were no less responsible than my arms by that point, and in three seconds I lost three full days of work. I ran to the phone in the other room, falling tears staining loose papers, but it was too late. I picked up the receiver, but the line was dead. The house, which had to that point seemed serene, was washed over with fear. I fell to the floor, my lungs clawing at my throat for breath, and promptly passed out.

When Tom found me, I hadn’t moved from that spot. I did not hear him open the door or wipe his boots but I felt his eyes on the back of my head. This was one of the things I didn’t like about Tom.