Perfect

I swallow hard, I see him in his chair, writing on his laptop or otherwise dialing on the Mac; As I advance, the weight of fear eats at me, I murmur pleas to heaven, and when he turns his eyes to me, I am a walking flan.

I don't believe I have the heavenly help I implore.

“Boss...”

“What?” —He takes his hands off the keyboard, and looks at me.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Speak now or be silent, I don't have much time. Have you brought me the copies?”

“That's what I'm going for”—I a