I fantasize about working in an office. I have a cubicle with cat pictures. Hand sanitizer in a drawer in my desk. I write my name on a post-it note that I stick to the yoghurt I put in the fridge in the communal kitchen. Nobody ever steals it from me. That doesn’t happen in our office. We are all friends. I knock on a door and walk into my superior’s office. A coworker is already there. I say, “Would you give us a minute?” and they bow out. I have a conversation with my manager. The sexual tension emanating from both of our tightly buttoned up suits is almost palpable, but her eyes are empty and void and I know there is nothing to gain here. At the end, I say, “Thank you for your time. See you at lunch.” When I leave, my colleague is waiting by the door, and I smile at him and tell him he can go back inside. His eyes are empty as well. We have lunch together. We go to a salad place. I show pictures of my toddler around. Lifeless eyes congratulate me on how fast they are growing. I put the photos back into my wallet with hurried fingers, so pressed suddenly that I dog-ear one of them. No matter. I just needed them to stop looking. We go back up. I eat my yoghurt. I put the post-it note into the paper bin under my desk. I look at the cat pictures on my cubicle walls. I do not have a cat. I did not put them there. I don’t belong in this place. When I get up, I can’t find the door anymore. The office is a wide, grey plane with empty eyes and no exit. A coworker sees me looking around and asks me if I have to go to the bathroom as well and says we should go together. As I follow her, I swipe a fountain pen off a desk and hide it in my sleeve. I know exactly where to aim.
