Our TG Captionpage 4
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The kitchenette shimmered in its sterile perfection, every surface wiped, every chrome fixture polished to the edge of reflection. Dee reached for the hazelnut creamer, but her fingers paused midair, twitching like a compass needle near a magnet. Her smile remained, bright and intact.
Reality—watching, measuring—found her lively.
Too lively.
Too... Dee.
So it stepped in again.
She straightened with a soft gasp, barely more than a breath. It could have been a hiccup. Could have been nothing. Her reflection in the silver coffeepot rippled—then settled.
Her smile didn't falter. But it *rearranged.*
Less sparkle, more poise. The warm upward tilt of her lips adjusted to a precise, customer-service curve—pleasant, placid, unreadable. Her eyes lost their twinkle, gained clarity. Not insight, not curiosity—*clarity.* As in, glass. Transparent. Refractive.
Her blouse smoothed further, buttoned higher. No more suggestive peach—it was now ivory, starch-pressed, with a discreet name tag: **D. Beach — Admin. Support**. Her skirt flattened its flirtation, turned slate-gray, hit just below the knee. Still snug, still skirt—but standard-issue. And her heels? Sensible. Uniform. Regulation height.
Her beehive collapsed into a neat French twist, not a hair out of place. Her earrings shrank to studs—pearl-like, inoffensive. The perfume behind her ears evaporated, replaced by the neutral tang of office fabric softener.
Her planner in her desk drawer updated, unseen: **Personal Notes** were wiped. In their place, color-coded sections for *Meetings*, *Minutes*, *Lunch Orders*, *Passwords*. A laminated sticky note now read:
**"Prioritize efficiency over engagement. Keep chatter minimal. Appearance: consistent and clean."**
Dee returned with the coffee, her steps silent now—heels whispering rather than clicking. She placed the mug on Mike’s desk with gentle precision, her fingers pulling back in a quick, professional tuck.
"Your coffee, sir," she said, with a nod that was perfectly timed, perfectly polite, and perfectly forgettable.
Mike looked up and smiled again, this time with the automatic warmth reserved for a fixture. "Thanks, Dee."
"Of course." She folded her hands behind her back, eyes lowered just enough. “Would you like me to stay for the meeting notes?”
He paused. "Sure, yeah. That’d be great."
She sat, tablet in hand, stylus hovering. Not the pen. Not anymore.
The meeting began. Her posture never faltered. She didn’t speak unless asked. And when she did, her answers were functional. Smooth. Void of commentary. She was dutiful, processing.
Dee blinked once it was over. “Next item on the agenda,” she said, voice soft and even, “is the Q3 budget reallocation memo. Would you like me to format the draft tonight?”
Mike nodded.
“Perfect,” Dee replied.
And it was.
Reality—watching, measuring—found her lively.
Too lively.
Too... Dee.
So it stepped in again.
She straightened with a soft gasp, barely more than a breath. It could have been a hiccup. Could have been nothing. Her reflection in the silver coffeepot rippled—then settled.
Her smile didn't falter. But it *rearranged.*
Less sparkle, more poise. The warm upward tilt of her lips adjusted to a precise, customer-service curve—pleasant, placid, unreadable. Her eyes lost their twinkle, gained clarity. Not insight, not curiosity—*clarity.* As in, glass. Transparent. Refractive.
Her blouse smoothed further, buttoned higher. No more suggestive peach—it was now ivory, starch-pressed, with a discreet name tag: **D. Beach — Admin. Support**. Her skirt flattened its flirtation, turned slate-gray, hit just below the knee. Still snug, still skirt—but standard-issue. And her heels? Sensible. Uniform. Regulation height.
Her beehive collapsed into a neat French twist, not a hair out of place. Her earrings shrank to studs—pearl-like, inoffensive. The perfume behind her ears evaporated, replaced by the neutral tang of office fabric softener.
Her planner in her desk drawer updated, unseen: **Personal Notes** were wiped. In their place, color-coded sections for *Meetings*, *Minutes*, *Lunch Orders*, *Passwords*. A laminated sticky note now read:
**"Prioritize efficiency over engagement. Keep chatter minimal. Appearance: consistent and clean."**
Dee returned with the coffee, her steps silent now—heels whispering rather than clicking. She placed the mug on Mike’s desk with gentle precision, her fingers pulling back in a quick, professional tuck.
"Your coffee, sir," she said, with a nod that was perfectly timed, perfectly polite, and perfectly forgettable.
Mike looked up and smiled again, this time with the automatic warmth reserved for a fixture. "Thanks, Dee."
"Of course." She folded her hands behind her back, eyes lowered just enough. “Would you like me to stay for the meeting notes?”
He paused. "Sure, yeah. That’d be great."
She sat, tablet in hand, stylus hovering. Not the pen. Not anymore.
The meeting began. Her posture never faltered. She didn’t speak unless asked. And when she did, her answers were functional. Smooth. Void of commentary. She was dutiful, processing.
Dee blinked once it was over. “Next item on the agenda,” she said, voice soft and even, “is the Q3 budget reallocation memo. Would you like me to format the draft tonight?”
Mike nodded.
“Perfect,” Dee replied.
And it was.
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