Today, she’s wearing a turtleneck, pearls, a cardigan sweater, and SAS shoes. I don’t get it. How can someone at her age sound decades younger and say such filthy things? She looks like she should be offering me a fresh-baked cookie, but I’ve heard her begging to toss a salad. And I don’t mean the kind with iceberg lettuce. Not that cookies and ‘salad’ are mutually exclusive, but . . . nope, stopping that thought right there.

Margaret gets to her door and I hand her back her tea. “Busy work day today?”

She nods, giving me a grandmotherly smile. “Of course. I’ve got a new one just waiting for me. So hot it’ll blow your socks off.”

“Do I want to know?” I joke, half-praying she doesn’t tell me and half-curious what she considers ‘sock-blowingly hot’. Margaret shakes her head, giggling like a school girl. “Good to know. Thanks. Have a good one.”

I unlock my own office and pull on my noise canceling headphones just in case while checking my email. There’s nothing new, no new major policy changes I need to make anyone aware of, no lawsuits, and thankfully, nobody died, so I don’t have any claims to process.

Overall, a nice, slow start to the day.

Cracking my knuckles, I turn my music off and turn my attention to the one part of my job I don’t like, voicemail. I get it, all of my ads include my phone number. And a lot of my clients are older folks who are used to old school communications.

But trying to decipher a garbled, scratchy voice mumbling information into a voicemail is agonizing. Especially when you get the one where someone’s information gets half cut off and you’re left with ‘867-5309, Jenny wants—’ before getting a click. I remind myself that any calls at all, even prank ones, mean Amy’s marketing brilliance is working, and when the new commercial hits television screens all over the city, I’ll have even more calls, emails, and policies to write. More people to help.

I’m just about to play my third message when there’s a knock on the door. That’s unusual. I’m not expecting anyone. And my office door says I’m not open for another hour, although that doesn’t always stop folks.

I get up and open my door, and on the other side is a blonde woman. At a glance, I’d say she’s in her early to mid-forties, but I could be off. Her makeup’s muted, and her hair’s pulled back in a plain ponytail. She’s in a low-cut black blouse and slacks, nice looking but not so fancy she’s out of place in an office building.