Let Me Explain You Read Online Free PDF Page B

different from her father. How could she ever take seriously a man—OK, kid—who wanted only to please her? She said, “You just have to run them as a batch appeal. It’s quick.” Knowing he’d cave.
    She should have been promoted already, a jump from pay scale 4 to pay scale 6, whatever that was supposed to mean. Every job gave you aggravation, but at least here she didn’t have to be nice and pray that her niceness would get her somewhere. Here, it was brains and quotas, except that, before too long, here was just like everywhere else and they held off on the promotion when the cunts reported Litza talking on her cell during work hours. Thereafter she had to watch her back, that was the moral of the workplace, any workplace. Rob she could trust, because Rob she knew how to handle. But the cunts, they were the type to complain to the supervisors about how she spoke to customers and how she needed to ask colleagues for things differently, when Litza didn’t understand why the question had to be different if the answer was going to be the same regardless. She could say, “Is it pharma 636, cunt?” or she could say, “Is it pharma 636?” and the cunt would have to confirm it was or it was not 636. The dumbest people surrounding her, exactly like the ones who stood up at graduation to interrupt the dean, who was handing out associate’s degrees. Litza had been the only one listening to the dean’s remarks, she had been paying attention about how to get ahead, because she was smart. Her father couldn’t see this. Her father had refused to come.
    Watch your back was the moral of family, too, of course, but that she learned early.
    â€œI’m going through some family shit right now, Robby.” He wasn’t mad—if there was one thing he respected, it was being there for your family. He did whine like a baby for another minute, though. She promised that she’d be able to cover for him when his boys came into town, but knew she wouldn’t have to because he wouldn’t ask.
    She went back to sleep. The second time she woke, it was to push the alarm off its shelf. The third time, it was voice mail pinging at her ear. She sat up to listen: Litza, ah, you and I have some things. To talk on together. Pause, laugh . Are you not answering because you have my email letter there in front of you? Pause. I know I have forbid you from the diner, but it is OK now that you come when there is not too much time.
    She should send him a letter of her own final wishes. Dear Dad: Let me explain you. Don’t write me letters, don’t leave any more fucking messages.
    But that was not her actual final wish. Her actual final wish would have nothing to do with her father.
    A baby.
    Even if all she had left to spend with it was ten days. Or one day. That would be enough for her, God. If He—obviously He—were listening. One day is too much to ask? God?
    She brushed her teeth. She applied makeup that she did not need. Her unblemished skin made her appear tender, which was sometimes true. Her eyes were smoky brown with flecks of blue—where did those come from? No one in her family had eyes like hers. Often, when she got what she wanted, it was because of those eyes, large and intense and giving the unlikely impression that she was interested in what was spilling out of your mouth. Her hair was smoky, too, her hair was also her own; it surprised even Litza that her hair was not dark like Stavroula’s. But, whatever, she was skinny, and her boobs were perky, undeniably Greek. They were the reason every boy she’d ever been with called her his Greek Goddess, and she never confessed that the nickname had been used up already. She threw on a zebra-print shirt, slipped into some heels, added silver hyperbola earrings. The earrings, she had made herself.
    One occasion—her wedding—Litza made jewelry for all of the women in her family. Now Litza made