I have doomed us all. It cannot be undone. Again. I sat at E—‘s desk for the second day in a row. Since I couldn’t log in, I emailed my time stamp to my boss, rested my head, relaxed my eyes, and sipped my morning coffee.
Work went well until I touched the office door.
Well. I mean, I didn’t do it. I did it; the other me did it; the one who sits at my desk did it. He’s to blame for everything.
He unscrewed himself from my desk, stretched, and sauntered over to the door. It didn’t fuss when he stood next to it, eying its panels and knob. And it said nothing when he laid his hand on the doorframe. Then he reached for the handle.
He grabbed the nob and wiggled it. Then he shut the door and shuffled back to my desk.
“Maybe that will cut down on the draft,” I said.
“Maybe,” I said.
Then I went back to work.
We are all so fucked. I hope HR doesn’t find out about it.
Like what you read? There’s more.
“Morning coffee” is a serial fiction series, served fresh daily. So far, we’ve covered rubberneckers, co-workers, cubicle stains, office plants, desk trophies, conspiracies, secret organizations, pocket dimensions, black holes, and impending, inevitable doom. And that’s just the beginning.
Where should we go next? Let me know in the comment section below.