The name on the screen was “Absinthe.” But I knew her as the sultry voice blowing up my phone for late night chats about Proust and Hemingway interspersed between the filthiest little… conversations.
We’d never met.
Until the day she walked into my office, her cherry lips wrapped around a candy apple sucker and an all too familiar voice that said, “You wanted to see me, Principal Hawthorne?”
