Free The Delphi Room by Melia McClure

think I improved on their system quite a bit. Really, the company would not have run so smoothly without me. I was the nuts and bolts of that operation. But nobody ever realized, much less said thank you. Credit never goes where credit is due, does it?
    The thing that I liked about my job, other than the fact that it came with dental, was the sense of calm the act of filing brought me. I was very tense when I first started, of course, but once I had mastered—in fact, developed—the system, I was free to think about other things. I liked to recite poetry to myself as I filed, especially “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.” A flawless lyric. I love Marlowe. Literature is full of romantic figures, but to me he is unsurpassed. I used to have fantasies about dying in a tavern brawl. But if you are not leaving anything brilliant behind, what is the point? There is something very disconcerting about outliving your idol—turning thirty was depressing, to say the least. Once I was older than he was when he died—Marlowe having achieved immortality as a great writer—I felt like a dusty relic, and the years stretched out flat and endless while my capacity for greatness seemed to shrink to the point of invisibility. It certainly did not help that Rudolph Valentino—another idol of mine—died at thirty-one. I must say I found that my thirties in general were nothing to write home about.
    I do not know if I would have been very good in a bank. To be honest, even if I had gotten an interview, I do not think I would have tried for it. Sometimes receiving the invitation is enough—actually attending the party is like one too many icing roses on an already sweet cake. It is very stressful to be on your feet talking to people all day, and as I mentioned, handling money is difficult for me. There are a lot of germs on the faces of those dead Prime Ministers, not to mention the Queen.
    Anyway, as I walked along that day, on my way to submit my resumé, I was feeling bolder and happier than usual. It was a Friday, and I had called in sick. I always go to the same café at 8:43 a.m . Punctuality is a virtue. Everyone there knows me, and they let me bring my own mug, since I prefer not to use drinking vessels belonging to others, even if they are single-use paper cups. Who knows, I may have landed an interview! But I guess that information will be forever kept from me.
    Again, I am sorry I lied.
    While I am apologizing, I feel that I must also say that I am sorry about my appearance, in case it disappointed you. Perhaps this sounds strange, but I was initially terrified that you saw me, terrified and disappointed. Somehow it seemed easier to write to you knowing that you had no idea what I looked like. But now I want you to see me. Although I cannot stop myself from writing apologetic rambles like this one. So: sorry that my nose and chin are unevenly distributed. And it has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt, as you saw, that I will not develop shoulders before I die. I know that—unless things have altered in your room—you have no one else to correspond with. Nevertheless, I hope that my person did not disappoint. No one likes to be chosen by default.
    Shut up, Brinkley. Is that what you are thinking? Once one embarks on a tangent rife with worries, it is difficult to reset the course. Next topic: I suppose the fact that I am not actually a banker has rearranged your ideas about what kind of place I lived in. It was a very nice, thoroughly disinfected basement suite, in an older but very nice house. Actually, my mother lived in the house; I rented the basement from her. She has been sick the last few years and I was trying to take care of her. It was a brown house with large hedges in front, and two prominent upstairs windows that looked like eyes. My suite was small, but it had hardwood floors, like yours, and bright warm yellow walls, just like Monet’s dining room at Giverny. I did not have any Monet poster prints, but I