My memory tells me that, prior to this week, I very rarely wore a tie. It tells me that even when I
My memory tells me that, prior to this week, I very rarely wore a tie. It tells me that even when I had to, I hated it, and ripped it from my neck as soon as I possibly could. My Boss tells me that I have always worn a tie, which would explain why I have so many of them. Why would someone who ostensibly hates them have so many? It is difficult to know which to believe, but memory is so fickle, so slippery. How often our memories of our own pasts are revealed to be falsified, whether through invention or subconscious theft - it is much easier to believe my Boss, who is standing in front of me. He eyes my outfit critically, then tugs at the knot briefly, experimentally, to check the tautness of the tie at my throat. He smiles, and I feel an intense relief sweep through me, a wind that shoves aside all second thoughts, all doubts. He applies gel to my short hair with his fingers, completing when I didn’t know that completion was necessary. I am assured that my orientation is coming along very nicely. I feel light-headed, my heart thudding in my chest, under my button-down shirt, under my tie. In the next room, a freshly-printed contract is laid on the desk - next to it; a pen, tip glistening with new ink. -- source link