Bullet Show

The water cooler gargles from around the corner of my cubical. Paula—the Marxist who somehow remained in corporate for forty years—abruptly stops typing.

“Now?” she mouths.

I adjust my necktie and smack my lips. I nod.

Matt, my happy hour go-to, pops his head above the cubical barrier.

Paula’s eyes widen as I stand up and shuffle across the rough blue carpet that seems to floor every office building. Matt lifts his fist in solidarity. I jut to the left, then right, and into the break room.

I skip to the refrigerator, open the door, and fumble the zipper of a bright turquoise lunch bag—ladybugs printed on it.

I reach inside and my fingers curl around the device.

I pull out Stacy’s bullet vibrator from the bag where a sandwich should have been. I stuff it into my pocket.

Sucking in the side of my cheek, I pace toward Stacy’s empty desk and place her toy on her keyboard. I dart back toward my cubical.

Sleeping with the boss in exchange for receiving your coworkers’ raises deserves a token of recognition.