Professional Sin
“I write meticulous reports. I’m early to meetings. I try to be helpful, to be insightful. And I avoid the front of the office as much as possible; seeing Hawthorne would ruin my mood.
As the day wears on, I become more and more convinced that my job is safe.
Just as I’m about to go home, my phone rings. It’s Slade, summoning me for an office meeting.
I carefully carry my mug of coffee into the conference room. Instantly, I’ve got a problem.
The way people are spread out, with one or two empty seats between them, I won’t be able to sit without being next to someone.
There’s a cluster of chairs off to one side, and I decide I’ll sit there. I don’t need to be at the table.
“Who ordered coffee? I’d like some,” a white-haired man says. He has ruddy cheeks, and I can see the faint blue outline of his veins through the skin on his bulbous nose. It’s like crazing on glass. Take away his suit and he could be a thick-necked peasant in a Bruegel painting.
“She’s not a waitress,”
Write Review:
Guest
Read Also
9 / 10
User Reviews: