Copy Room Toner and His Hands
Seventh floor after six. The printer jammed again on purpose. HR would not understand the toner stain on my blouse.
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Seventh floor after six. The printer jammed again on purpose. HR would not understand the toner stain on my blouse.
Forty minutes between keynote and drinks. The doors wouldn't open. He was a competitor. His wedding band scratched my palm when he finally reached for me.
Not my boss—her. Same level, same deadline, same 11 p.m. copy room when the printers finally stopped jamming.
The spreadsheet has two tabs. One is numbers. One is us.
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