“Bogart & Sons Security Service,” Mithra says into the phone. “No, you cannot speak with Mr Bogart.”
The rest of the conversation is predictable.
“I am the manager.”
I preemptively remove all glass from her desk.
“What can I do?” Mithra snorts. She hangs up.
“Put a switchblade into his eye before he blinks?” I suggest.
She laughs, and the tension is broken.
This happens. We are two women trying to make it in a male-dominated business sphere. The easiest way is through the huge blind spots of male conceit: that's why we named the agency the way we did.
I count ampersand as a word, even though the counter does not.
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