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“The Eighth Floor (Part Three)”
Taffy-Lynn Shore didn’t remember how she’d gotten this job.
She remembered standing in an elevator, clutching notes—wait, had there been notes? A lecture? That didn’t sound like her.
No, she must have been daydreaming. Everyone got nervous their first day.
Maribelle was so sweet, so bouncy and bossy in the prettiest way. Taffy-Lynn found herself nodding at every word she said. Yes, she’d help with calendar duplication. Yes, she’d organize the gloss drawer by flavor, not just color. Of course. Obviously.
Her cubicle smelled faintly of bubblegum and toner. She turned to her monitor, which displayed a cheerful checklist in Comic Sans:
“Tasks for Today, Sugarbean!”
She hadn’t written that. But it was in her favorite font. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Her nails were already longer than they had been—almond-shaped, painted lavender with tiny rhinestones at the base of each cuticle.
A warmth pulsed behind her ears.
Reality had begun to notice her.
She was willing, yes. But not quite right yet. There were too many remnants of shape in her. Too much posture. Too much spine. That wouldn’t do for an assistant to a floor secretary.
No, she needed to be pliable. Malleable. Girl-shaped putty with a purpose.
The air shimmered. Her screen blinked.
Taffy-Lynn gasped softly as her skirt got shorter by an inch. Then another. She didn’t adjust it—she couldn’t. It simply was the correct length now. Tight, high-waisted, with a ridiculous bow above the zipper. Her legs crossed instinctively, knees pressed together in programmed poise.
Her blouse—had it been plain cotton?—became translucent chiffon, polka-dotted, with a dainty necktie she didn’t remember tying. Her shoes, once sensible, were now nude patent stilettos with little velvet bows at the back.
Her lips tingled. A soft candy-pink gloss painted itself on.
She blinked.
She was younger.
Not much. A year, maybe two. Just enough for the world to classify her not as a woman with experience, but as a girl under someone. A girl who looked up at others and copied what they did.
She looked across the aisle at Maribelle and felt a little flutter. Not quite admiration. Something more primitive. Like imprinting.
She wanted to be her. Or be liked by her. Or be shaped by her. Her brain was already softening into something spongey and eager, absorbing everything Maribelle did, said, wore.
She caught herself twirling her pen the same way. Tilting her head the same way. Giggling just half a second after Maribelle did—just in case.
Reality nudged further. Good, it thought. Better. But there was still too much personhood here. She needed to be more responsive. More of a foil. An empty mirror with a very tight blouse.
Her posture shifted without her knowing. Back arched. Shoulders back. Eyes a little wider. A soft smile, permanent now. A look that said: “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it adorably.”
Her badge shimmered and reprinted itself:
Taffy-Lynn Shore – Junior Secretary (Under Maribelle Fielding) – Eighth Floor Doll-In-Training – Since Always
She stared at it for a moment, dreamy and still. The phrase didn’t even seem strange.
Since Always.
That made sense. Her life had always been desks and clipboards and asking older, better secretaries what to wear for the holiday luncheon. She’d always admired Maribelle, hadn’t she? That perfect swish in her hips, that glossy, womanly confidence.
Taffy-Lynn was a little sexier now too—reality's idea of what a younger woman thought being sexy meant. Lip gloss that caught the light. A heart-shaped name necklace. A practiced pout.
She glanced at her reflection in the cubicle divider’s faint sheen and posed just a bit—innocently, reflexively, for someone else’s eyes.
Maribelle turned in her seat and smiled, seeing her.
“Well don’t you just look like a whole cupcake, sugarbuns!” she said with delight.
Taffy-Lynn’s cheeks flushed with sparkly pride. “Ohmigosh, really? I just—I wanna do a good job, Miss Maribelle.”
Maribelle reached over and fluffed her ponytail with matronly approval. “You’re already doing perfect, honeybee. We’re gonna have you secretarying in no time.”
Taffy-Lynn’s heart skipped. “Yay!” she squeaked.
Somewhere above them, the fluorescent lights flickered once, quickly. Like a nod from a god.
Reality was pleased.
Two secretaries. One strong. One soft.
One to lead, one to follow.
Taffy-Lynn Shore didn’t remember how she’d gotten this job.
She remembered standing in an elevator, clutching notes—wait, had there been notes? A lecture? That didn’t sound like her.
No, she must have been daydreaming. Everyone got nervous their first day.
Maribelle was so sweet, so bouncy and bossy in the prettiest way. Taffy-Lynn found herself nodding at every word she said. Yes, she’d help with calendar duplication. Yes, she’d organize the gloss drawer by flavor, not just color. Of course. Obviously.
Her cubicle smelled faintly of bubblegum and toner. She turned to her monitor, which displayed a cheerful checklist in Comic Sans:
“Tasks for Today, Sugarbean!”
She hadn’t written that. But it was in her favorite font. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Her nails were already longer than they had been—almond-shaped, painted lavender with tiny rhinestones at the base of each cuticle.
A warmth pulsed behind her ears.
Reality had begun to notice her.
She was willing, yes. But not quite right yet. There were too many remnants of shape in her. Too much posture. Too much spine. That wouldn’t do for an assistant to a floor secretary.
No, she needed to be pliable. Malleable. Girl-shaped putty with a purpose.
The air shimmered. Her screen blinked.
Taffy-Lynn gasped softly as her skirt got shorter by an inch. Then another. She didn’t adjust it—she couldn’t. It simply was the correct length now. Tight, high-waisted, with a ridiculous bow above the zipper. Her legs crossed instinctively, knees pressed together in programmed poise.
Her blouse—had it been plain cotton?—became translucent chiffon, polka-dotted, with a dainty necktie she didn’t remember tying. Her shoes, once sensible, were now nude patent stilettos with little velvet bows at the back.
Her lips tingled. A soft candy-pink gloss painted itself on.
She blinked.
She was younger.
Not much. A year, maybe two. Just enough for the world to classify her not as a woman with experience, but as a girl under someone. A girl who looked up at others and copied what they did.
She looked across the aisle at Maribelle and felt a little flutter. Not quite admiration. Something more primitive. Like imprinting.
She wanted to be her. Or be liked by her. Or be shaped by her. Her brain was already softening into something spongey and eager, absorbing everything Maribelle did, said, wore.
She caught herself twirling her pen the same way. Tilting her head the same way. Giggling just half a second after Maribelle did—just in case.
Reality nudged further. Good, it thought. Better. But there was still too much personhood here. She needed to be more responsive. More of a foil. An empty mirror with a very tight blouse.
Her posture shifted without her knowing. Back arched. Shoulders back. Eyes a little wider. A soft smile, permanent now. A look that said: “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it adorably.”
Her badge shimmered and reprinted itself:
Taffy-Lynn Shore – Junior Secretary (Under Maribelle Fielding) – Eighth Floor Doll-In-Training – Since Always
She stared at it for a moment, dreamy and still. The phrase didn’t even seem strange.
Since Always.
That made sense. Her life had always been desks and clipboards and asking older, better secretaries what to wear for the holiday luncheon. She’d always admired Maribelle, hadn’t she? That perfect swish in her hips, that glossy, womanly confidence.
Taffy-Lynn was a little sexier now too—reality's idea of what a younger woman thought being sexy meant. Lip gloss that caught the light. A heart-shaped name necklace. A practiced pout.
She glanced at her reflection in the cubicle divider’s faint sheen and posed just a bit—innocently, reflexively, for someone else’s eyes.
Maribelle turned in her seat and smiled, seeing her.
“Well don’t you just look like a whole cupcake, sugarbuns!” she said with delight.
Taffy-Lynn’s cheeks flushed with sparkly pride. “Ohmigosh, really? I just—I wanna do a good job, Miss Maribelle.”
Maribelle reached over and fluffed her ponytail with matronly approval. “You’re already doing perfect, honeybee. We’re gonna have you secretarying in no time.”
Taffy-Lynn’s heart skipped. “Yay!” she squeaked.
Somewhere above them, the fluorescent lights flickered once, quickly. Like a nod from a god.
Reality was pleased.
Two secretaries. One strong. One soft.
One to lead, one to follow.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!