O fruitful day! Josephine, human scythe, had cut down every task and to-do in her path—try me, make me, bring it, was her MO—and she was still in motion, wearing her chukkas and bulleting along Hicks Street, taking the Heights by storm. She’d leveled this day and it was, what, barely 2:00?
At dawn in her hallowed hovel, aka sanctum sanctorum, she’d been prodigious, making editorial mincemeat, cut cut cutting the dreck. “Die now, die now,” she declaimed, each time she stabbed Delete. She spun new words too, for hours, until a speck of sun on her desk became a dot and the dot grew high and wide and shone so brightly on her screen and caused her to squint so hard that she could no longer see.
Not until then did she hear her man hollering—hoarsely, he’d been at it for some time. “Jo! Mr. Coffee time!”
