Defensive cubicles hide your
growing apathy. It’s like a
musty scarf covering your mouth.
You reek of printer-inked coffee-stained
Dave’s fluorescent “party” tie explodes
through the room divider cracks.
You’re choking on your own groans by this point.
An absence of light is followed by a chord
of ABBA, strobes, a chorus of cheers
that’s like sugar confetti. Those finishing emails
strum keyboard keys out of sync
and the grey fortress is now rainbow.
Mel is there, in a corner of presents.
You missed your chance with her, now
mouths and feelings and physical contact
have her surrounded.
Six years you waited, guarded by a computer
monitor. You imagine your defences lowering, as you
cross the hoovered carpet-moat, a noble steed
in armour gathers you, lowers you on to
Mel’s desk. Even now, here she might spy you
in the cracks, she might wade
across the room (it’s only a bloody room) and
take your hand. But that’s all sugar confetti.
You stuck around,
because no-one wanted to dance.
Everything’s a bit shit right now and I don’t know whether I wrote this because I miss being at work or I’ve been watching an obscene amount of The Office. Stay safe folks x