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 |   Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
| "If I wanted you fired... ..." Brenda Schrott stood there by my cubicle, drink in hand, twirling a pencil in the other. "We need to talk." Bag-of-snot marched. I quietly followed, slinking past those other stalls, averting my eyes, becoming invisible... to absolutely... no one. At her majesty's desk she motioned for me to sit in the leather chair, the one reserved for dignitaries and executions. I stared at her collection of shrunken heads. "What's that?" She pointed at a button sitting daintily on a lace doily. Emo? Much. But, I didn't dare say that. "A button." "Whose button?" I stared at it intently. "It won't bite you." I could feel the acid dripping from her fangs. "Pick it up." It was small, black, 4 holes, nondescript, could have been anyone's... if I didn't know better. "Lost a button, have you?" My blinking eyes gave me away. "Well, take it and sew it back on. You look goofy with your chest hair showing. It's not professional." I gulped as she turned to reach for her phone, a cue for me to slip away as fast as I could. "Thank you. May I go?" She smiled, a very thin line of a smile, and half nodded. "But next time don't sneak into the broom closet. I've watched the security video a few times..." I blushed. "...hoping to learn something new." I felt my heart skipping. "By the look on you-know-who's face I suspect you were good, very good. I've made a note in your file just in case we have a client in need of your skills." I stood frozen. "We'll keep in touch. Now go." I don't remember how I got back to my desk. |
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