Summersfield

Morgan Neilson lived in a fancy house, drove a new black Lexus--always spotless, and parked in the most coveted of parking spaces at the Washington Summersfield--only seven and a half steps from the front door. Today she sauntered merrily into work on this rainy day (which was 75% of any day) with her olive green umbrella and matching italian leather shoes. Her 5'9" frame walked slowly past the office cublicles where little miss Willamina Frita sucked on her Werther's candy so hard that she almost caused a sore to form in her mouth from the tight pucker that her lips held. Willamina stared at Ms. Neilson like a god as she passed, and Willamina tried without being completely obvious, to sniff her strong Chanel No. 5 perfume. Everyday she gawked  as Ms. Neilson's slim figure strolled the asiles of paperwork and Willamina listened to the sound of her heels as they approached. She sifted through her papers hoping that Ms. Neilson would not stop and say something to her, but all the while, living for the anticipation of every morning. Ms. Neilson passed her desk today. She pressed the up arrow on the elevator with her freshly manicured fingernails, using only her pointer finger and then placed it slowly back by her side, returning to her model posture stance. Her charcoal suit was so perfectly tailored that it was sure to never fit another as well, and even complimented Ms. Neilson's blue eyes and blonde hair. It hugged every curve as if it the suit yielded to her power. 

Her office and only her office, was located on the 7th floor. It was known at the Summersfield as the room of mystery because no one had ever been up there that worked on the filing floor. What was far above on floor number 7 was far in distance, but much closer in Willamina's imagination...