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A slow, evil smile crept up my face. Dr. Brady’s office was back there. And he was miles away.
I hopped up from the chair, grabbing my purse and tiptoeing down the hallway, as if there was anyone to hide from anyway, and then fast walked my way to his office. It would be locked, but he had given me the keys to the building the night before.
Big mistake, mister.
When I reached his office door, bearing the practical black and white placard that read “Dr. Amos Brady,” I fished the set of keys from my purse and flipped them on the ring one by one until I found the one with duct tape labeled “Brady.”
Score.
I unlocked it tentatively, stuck my head around the door, and peered inside. Perfectly tidy, quiet, and dark, his office sat there with arms wide open, just waiting to be vandalized. Or snooped. Or something. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but it was hisprivate office. There were so many possibilities.
I flicked on the lights and started to explore. Lots of degrees and certificates. Boring. Medical files piled in neat little stacks. Super boring. A gym bag with perfectly washed and pressed workout clothing and some travel-sized toiletries. Not even a condom in there.
Gasp.
Was he an LDS bishop or something? My parents were Mormon, and I did love them for it, but the devout members followed strict rules. Not that I had jived with the religion as I grew older, but I knew their culture better than I knew actual laws. No “canoodling” before marriage was one of the rules.
Come to think of it, Dr. Brady hated cursing, too, and everyone in the building knew to watch their mouths around him. Another Mormony thing.
I had to know. If he really was a bishop, which was a sort of volunteer pastor for the local branch, there would absolutely be evidence. A Book of Mormon, a Jesus poster… picture. Whatever.
I went to the desk and opened drawers, looking for missionary pamphlets or a book by one of the main church leaders called apostles. In the drawer just below his keyboard, I found a yellow leather book that looked like it costa lotof money. It had a bee stamped on its cover.
Bingo. That was definite Mormon shit right there.
I snatched it up and plopped my butt in his sleek, black leather computer chair. It hissed, lowering smoothly, and I rubbed the slick arms. “Oooh,” I whispered in awe. Nice chair.
Launching my feet off the floor to send the chair spinning, I opened the book to the first page. I expected to find scripture passages, church meeting notes, or maybe a journal—another LDS custom—but that was not at all what I had found.
It was a poem.
You set me out to
chase perfection,
And forced me to be framed within your image,
You taught me not to grieve her,
Saying I must, “Be A Man”
And after all that I’ve Accomplished
I still cannot find a single prescription
that will cure your lack of pride in me.
My jaw dropped, and I slammed my feet on the plastic floor guard. Dr. Dark and Surly was a poet. I turned the page and found another one.
The simple way you smiled,
How it crinkled up your nose,
The complicated way you’re brilliant,
And your mind keeps me on my toes,
The effortless way you dance like dust in sunbeams,
