Day 4
Sent to the Wrong Printer
You’re at work and you print something
personal (and sensitive). Unfortunately, you’ve sent it to the wrong printer
and, by the time you realize it, somebody else has already scooped it up.
‘Dear
Mr. Harris,’ Claudia’s chipped-pink nail polish fingers clicked away decisively
at her keyboard. If it had a voice, and it was grateful this morning in
particular that it didn’t, the keyboard would have had a shill,
holier-than-thou screech that so often pained the ears of Claudia’s co-workers
when it emanated from her vocal chords.
Claudia
didn’t pause to take a sip from her cooling coffee mug – something that
offended the pink cup (adorned with the insignia ‘I’d Rather Be Knitting’ and a
pug wearing a hand-made toque) deeply. Yet the chilled goblet swallowed its’
pride and said nothing. The remainder of Claudia’s desk was equally unused to
being disregarded – papers sat unfiled, documents unedited, emails hovered
unread. The telephone was the only who voiced her disapproval with a constant,
shrill ringing – yet, to no avail.
Claudia
paused for a moment, fingers poised above the keyboard as tense and proud as a
concert pianist prolonging the final chords of his master piece, and the
objects in Claudia’s meticulous office held a collective breath, anticipating
their daily routine to resume. It did not. Claudia dived once more at the
keyboard, striking the keys with such force as to harm the blocky letters, had
they any feeling.
‘Last
night was amazing!’
The
cursor blinked repeatedly in shock.
‘I
can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for your hands to caress me like that –‘
The
ergonomic chair which, for so many years, had devoutly and delicately embraced
Claudia’s lady parts, groaned and creaked in jealous rage.
From
the top of Claudia’s precisely parted hair, to the harshly ironed lines of her
grey slacks, to the nude stiletto pumps that ever so slightly crossed from work
appropriate to sexy, Claudia was the epitome of propriety – bordering on
prudish. Today, however, Claudia’s eyeliner was smudged, her lips bereft of
their usual plum lipstick, her hair unkempt and she was, shocking to any who
would notice, wearing the same outfit as yesterday. One of her nude pumps lay
deserted at the corner of her cubicle, having been discarded and left for dead
when Claudia stormed in earlier. It lay, cockeyed and dusty, in no man’s land.
A hole in the toe of Claudia’s panty hose had spread, shearing through the thin
fabric, meandering up an unshaven calf to linger tenuously on the curve of her
knee.
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