I

In the airless beige office she finds ways to kill time. She spins in her taupe chair until she feels faintly nauseous. She flicks through the papers in the greyish filing cabinet. She kicks the nude heel off her left foot and wedges its leather between her big toe and second-biggest toe. She cradles the putty-coloured phone in her elbow and coos to it like it’s a baby, feeling its plastic coldness. Through the half-open blinds, she stares at the signs for other businesses, reading their names out loud. First with an Aussie accent. Then a British one. Affordable Massage. Life Thrift. MRIs R Us. Poke Town. Inlet Market. Peat Bog Tanning. The Dark Fowl.

‘The Dark Fowl, innit?’ she murmurs to herself.

The fluorescent lights flicker. The air conditioner practically screams. The off-white box of paper clips shudders.

When her boss gets there – you’ll know he’s her boss by the illegible insignia of the company machine-stitched over his left pec – she will knock the box of paper clips onto the carpet. He will ignore her. She will kneel down on all fours. He will ignore her. She will pick up the paper clips one by one, looking up at him and apologising for the great big mess, crawling closer and closer to his knees.