THERE'S MY OFFICE!” I said aloud, though alone in my car.
Compared to “my P.O.” or “my escalating credit card delinquency,” the words (and what they implied) felt unfamiliar – alien – so I said them again, waving my hand as if I owned the entire fucking building.
The words (and what they implied) felt unfamiliar – alien – so I said them again.
“My office” – a humble, shared room on the tenth floor with windows I opened to let in wind and traffic and road construction and sirens, windows too small to climb through and jump to my death.
“My office,” I said again, chewing it over.
