Pooja Kumar
She didn’t say anything. She wore slacks and a sweater, her standard uniform. Mike arrived at ten-forty-five. He opened the door all the way and said, ‘Delivery, Ma’am.’ She took the box and started to cry as soon as Mike was gone. I typed nonsense. She opened the box and found the yellow roses. Suddenly she put her head down on her desk and sobbed. She didn’t cry softly. Her body shook with the power of the sobs, her breath came in gasps. I stayed in my chair. A few minutes passed and she opened a drawer and used some tissues from the drawer. She looked over at me, typing nonsense and said, ‘Stop it. I’m the only person on the planet cold enough to type while someone sobs. You’re faking.’ ‘You told me who to be three months ago. It’s really hard. What should I do?’ ‘Lock the door.’ I got up and locked the door to our office. ‘Come here.’ I stood beside her desk. ‘He sent you.’ ‘The Denver office sent me.’ ‘Maybe, but he sent you.’ ‘Who?’ When the man I married was courting me, he. But we came home with filthy road uniforms, one more kid who had just lost his virginity a thousand miles from his home state of Wyoming, and seven more wins.The Baby Birds were in first place!My road dispatches to the Orioles brass in Baltimore were more detailed and more punchy than the ones I composed at home, when I was always eager to pack up and head for Orlie's place. I waxed eloquent about the exploits of my little band of beardless boys, winning ballgames like they were the Bronx Bombers -- only skinnier.I had to be careful, though. Just one front office decision in Baltimore to promote one of these kids before the Appalachian League season ended, and our chances of winning the pennant could go into the toilet. The best of these players would move to other clubs -- the faster "A" league clubs or even up to Bowie in Double-A -- early in September after the short season ended here in Bluefield.Moving up at the end of August would be happy news, for the player, and for me as his.
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