The Editor

Mark stuck a finger under his collar and tugged, watching his boss scan the article. It's hot in here. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck and soaked into his shirt. He wanted - needed - to ask what she thought, yet was reluctant to break the silence.

Her tapping pen slowed, then stopped. "Not bad," she drawled out. "Still ..." She paused and went to work, making several marks. "I see plenty of room for improvement. There's potential, but it needs teeth. I'm intrigued, but not gripped. That means the reader won't be either." She smirked and handed the article back. "Now, come back here this afternoon with something I can print."

"Yes ma'am," he retorted and returned to his desk. He'd heard, even before he'd taken the job, that she was a tough editor. He hadn't believed it then. He did now.

No teeth? Hmph. I'll show her gripping.

The remainder of the morning Mark typed until his fingers cramped. He waved off his co-workers' offer of lunch, electing to trudge to the vending machine for a bottled water. Working through his usual breaks, by the time the first people were punching out, he held the rewritten article. Would it be good enough?

Five minutes later, Mark stood at her desk, waiting for the verdict.

The habitual tapping ceased almost immediately and not even her usual hmmms were present to provide clues. He fidgeted with the gold band on his finger, watching for any indication - good or bad.

Finally, she glanced up and nodded. "It'll do. We'll make a reporter out of you yet." Stretching, she stood and reached for her purse. "The kids need to be picked up from practice. Shall we?"

"After you, dear," he replied, letting his wife go first.