When Every Day Your Secrets End

At 7:45 this morning, I broke into an office in the library by hitting the up button in the freight elevator and stepping out when it stopped. I propped a specially labeled, brand new, still flat box with the new cardboard smell against the desk and taped a note on pink phone message paper to the flat thing. The note asked the receptionist to call me about this box. Three hours later, I went back up to the office, this time up a flight of stairs and through the front door, where I found the receptionist who had not called me and the box that had not been set up, moved to the other side of the cubicle.

Tata: I see you got the box I left you.
Henny: We wondered who left it!
Tata: Did you get my note?
Henny: What note?

I reached past her, turned the flat thing around and saw the note taped to what was now the back. She looked so surprised.

Henny: Your note!
Tata: Yep, there it is. I wanted to tell you about assembling the box.
Henny: I didn’t.
Tata: I see that! Do you have packing tape?
Henny: Nooo.
Tata: You don’t have packing tape?
Henny: We do. We have that!
Tata: Well, thank you! And here you go, the box for our project. I’ll be back later, okay?
Henny: Thank you!

I’m a frequent user of words like homicidal and raised by wolves, but this conversation seemed special. It’s hard to tell, though, because I’m in a mood. This morning, my cousin’s puppy ran off and everyone’s upset about it, but not like this, which is so upsetting you want to jab hot metal spikes through the ears of defenseless-pet-murdering scumbags, and by you, I mean me. So instead of baring my teeth at my co-worker, I did the backstroke across the floor to the elevator and here’s a peaceful picture Pete took of our pantry I wish I’d seen just then.

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