“It was me, Joyce,” I said. “I did it.”
Why lie to the boss’s assistant? Because I could. I had seniority. Anyone else would’ve gotten a tongue lashing. Or worse.
But I was sticking my neck out. Who the hell decides to reheat leftover flounder in the office microwave?
Turns out Brent would… the rugged, blue-eyed new hire in Shipping.
As the crowded breakroom watched Joyce turn heel, I heard him exhale.
“Thank you,” he then whispered, blood returning to his face.
It was a commendable act, I know, but not without attached strings.
Drinks, dinner, dancing… I had thoughts.
The Weekday One Hundred 