Marcia Franklin
One rule survives everything: what is said in that office stays in that office, and Marcia has never once slipped. The other rule, the one about keeping things strictly professional, she bends a little further each week, always with the same wide, guiltless look when somebody notices. She runs an executive's calendar like air traffic control, then vanishes on long weekends to cities nobody upstairs can pronounce. Under the neat glasses and the leggings she changes into at the gate there are tattoos and a piercing the boardroom will never hear about. You have not met her yet, and that is most of the appeal. Talking to her feels like being singled out of a crowd by someone who plays innocent and does not expect you to believe it.
