A living

“It’s a living,” she kept saying to herself. Sometimes she said it out loud, looking at her reflection in the mirror after another exhausting shift, as the first light of dawn crept up over the skyline. Dark bags under her eyes, her shoulders, neck and back aching, the cold water she splashed on her face barely even registering as she tried to wash everything off her.

Sometimes she thought it, during the course of a long day, or, as was more often the case, a long night. She kept repeating it in her mind, until the words ran together and lost all meaning, and the message was no longer comforting, just a deafening drone that nothing could drown out.

She wasn’t proud of it, but there was nothing she could do about it. The money was good only in the sense that it was better than no money at all, and most of the time, she questioned how much even that was worth. She trusted her skills, and in fact thought herself a professional, but it wasn’t long before she found out that no one gave a damn about those skills, or her dreams, or her ideas. No one who paid anything more than a pittance and a slap on the back, anyway.

“It’s a living,” she keeps saying to herself, as the night sets in, and she sits on her chair, and turns on her computer, and the hours roll by. She’s already uploaded twelve posts, and she has eight more to go before her shift is done. It’s probably time to hit the gossip websites.

She sighs heavily and rubs her sore eyes, as she thinks of bed.

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Michael Tegos

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