Nonprofit Work

When the old man in pressed khakis patted my shoulder like I was a biddable dog, his liver-colored lips spreading into a smile, and said, “Sweetie, you don’t realize this yet, but we’re the same, except that I work with a different caliber of people, the ultra-wealthy, the movers and the shakers, eighty hours a week I work, weekends too, late nights and cocktails with titans who hold the world by the balls, but sweetie, just like you, I make room for the little people,” and reached to stroke my cheek, the corner of my lip lifted before I lunged, whale-eyed, tearing two fingers from his hand and spitting them to the floor, grabbing him by the neck and tossing him cocksure out the door.