She stays up late some nights, thinking. She doesn’t have time to waste on these silly thoughts during the day, but sometimes she thinks them anyway. She thinks about what it must be like to be like those women who are so free with themselves—the ones who can wear tight clothing to work and smile brazenly at any men who pass them by. She lies stiffly, her arms at her sides, her hair woven tightly into a French braid that lays smooth against the pillow, and she wonders.

            Sometimes she thinks Dwight would like it if she were more like those women. Not that he thinks much about those women, other than to note that they’re hussies and not worth any more of his time. After that redheaded woman had come and gone, he seemed to come to a greater understanding of his place in the world, and it was not with a girl whose bosom bounced when she walked. Dwight appreciated sturdy underclothes.

            But as she lays in bed, thinking, she wonders what would happen if she were to cut her hair a different way, or wear make-up to work. She owns a little—some lipsticks, and one light brown eye shadow. Maybe tomorrow she’ll just try it and see.

            But then she sighs and knows that it won’t happen. She can’t. She’s just not that kind of woman.