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Description
8 a.m.

“Good morning Mary”.

She is ambushed from the time she steps foot into the parking lot. She reminds herself to breathe.

(Don’t talk to me.)

She nods and starts her inner coach. (Come on, you can do it.)

“Good morning Mary”.

Her chest tightens. She reminds herself to breathe and exhales loudly. Her badge ruins her outfit and she hates it.

(Do we HAVE to talk?)

She smiles.

“Good morning Mary”.

Her morning xanex begins to take effect. They knew better than to expect her to stop and chat. She grabs his Wall Street Journal and gets back on the elevator.

“Good morning Mary”.

(Quit talking to me.)

The elevator seemed to make things worse. She stared at the floor.

“Good morning Mary”.

Through the security door there is a thirty second path of freedom, where no one can see and no-one ever seems to pass by. She relishes a deep full breath. She turns the corner and glances through the glass wall. He is already here. Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead. She stifles an obvious cringe and turns to face him.

“Good morning Bob”. She removes the paper from its wet plastic wrapper and lays it down with baton twirling precision in one graceful movement. Her monotone allows her to appear as if she is not quite human and she has clearly mastered the art of seeing without looking. She welcomes his lack of response and walks stealthily to her cage. Not that it is safe.

“Mary”.

“Yes”.

“Mary”.

“Yes” a little louder.

Staring at her monitor she braces herself for the switch to flip. Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead.

“Mary”.

She is already out of breath.

“Yes Bob”. He ambushes her cage, shoving papers furiously towards her face. She slides her chair back to allow her body room to breathe and watches him knock over her pencil cup. His elbow jabs her as he attempts to gather the scattered pencils. She averts the pitiful stares of passing coworkers.

“Bob”.

He knocks the phone off the hook. The tone is loud and offensive. He slams it back down.

“Bob”.

He reshuffles his papers. She gathers the pencils.

“Are you done yet?” he snaps.

“Here is what I want from you this morning, in order of priority…..” The sound of his voice trails off into a dull lull as she focuses on the red and black marks on the pages before her. They are a giant maze he will chase her through until she finds the end. His starched cotton shirt scratches loosely up against her and she feels her skin try to jump away. Exhaling loudly, she reminds herself to breathe. She dodges his elbow as it thrusts back and forth towards her face.

“SO, we….” his voice trails off again. She listens to him repeat. Her eyes directly on the paper. He moves to the morning interrogation. Did you do this? Is it done yet? Where is this? What is this? Do this. Do that. Did you do that yet? What is the status on this?

“SO, are we done yet?” he concludes without a podium. She listens to him repeat.

In the end she nods and turns her focus to him as he walks into his office. She doesn’t mind looking at the back of his head. She doesn’t feel quite safe until he sits down. She exhales as he disappears from her eyes, but never from her ears.

The phone rings and rings. Put me in voicemail. Take a message. Can you check his calendar? Did you do it yet? The traffic swirls around the cube. What is his schedule? What is that one’s schedule? Do you have a copy? What time is the event? Are we done yet? Each attorney sends hand signals through the glass walls. Get the phone. Get my coffee. Get my package downstairs. Is it done yet? E-mails pop up like video game bombs. Print this. Find this. Do this. Are you done yet? She notices the numb. It’s cold in the office. She feels like a statue. Sitting in the middle of the fury, she attempts to warm herself with a mental cocoon.

“Mary”.

She pretends not to hear him.

“Mary”.

She bites her second xanex in two before swallowing. She cradles the bottle and gives it a loving squeeze before dropping it back into her purse.

“Mary!”

“Yes?” She slides down to see him, looking exasperated. Her eyes struggle not to roll for relief and her body lies limp across her desk.

“Are you done yet?”

Her mind races. “With what?”

“With my reservations for lunch today”.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“I can’t call them until 10:00 o’clock, remember,” she sing songs. Her co-workers walk by and offer her their morning glances of sympathy. She smiles and shrugs. The pity is no more comfortable.

She tries to lose herself in the mounds of paper before her. The ambition sucking lullaby of failure guides her through the uncomfortable familiarity of unimportance.

(How could one feel so smothered and so alone at the same time?)

Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead. She reminds herself to breath. Pattern can be comforting in ways. Click. Print. Sort. Staple. Stack. Alphabetize. Distribute. File. She watches herself repeat. Her feet swing and the phone is too far. No desk ever fits. She fights the self pity.

10:00 a.m.

Time for the mid-morning snack. She cringes tightly as she witnesses another fly by of paper bombs. Needing proof of her existence she stands up and her eyes examine ink marks that mock her. The scribbles begin to literally change form as she cocoons another layer over. Her eyes gloss over, her skin tingles and her body relaxes. It’s reminiscent of Novocain. She slouches, her feet still swinging.

“How you work for him I’ll never understand,” the blond coworker comments.

(Don’t talk to me.)

“You do what you gotta do,” she shrugs, her eyes never leaving the computer. She had mastered the art of minimization to endure. Seizing the opportunity of his absence to deliver the work she has completed, she gathers the water glasses and beverage bottles from his credenza. Glancing into his food drawer her breathe stops. She feels the adrenaline bleed over her cold numb soul. It feels good. It’s warm. She rushes out and reminds herself to breathe.

He returns with his beverage and snack and she listens to him repeat as he hangs over her ledge and flips through the newspaper. He smacks his green apple like a horse. It is almost more than she can bear.

“Are you done yet?”

“Mary.”

“Mary.”

“Are you done yet?”

“I’ve finished the first three and now I’m working on this.” Her eyes struggle not to roll in relief.

“Well o.k. but I also need you to remember to set up that video conference call for me, be sure and call all twelve assistants, and…..”. Her lullaby of failure keeps her focused. She can barely move. She listens to him repeat.

“Bob!”

“Bob!”

Another one wants him in their cave. He saunters his direction like an ape, the arrogance knocking into the walls around him. He is clumsy. She is quick. The drugs dissolve into the beverage with a spine tingling furor and she relishes in the joy the visual effervescence brings her. Her life seems to gush in the liquid as it dissolves into a gorgeous and peaceful calm.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“This is Mary.”

The surprise attack throws her off guard. She grabs her stencil and writes furiously, knocking about in her cage. (Why was everything so hard.) The ink marks tear the paper.

“Bob.”

“Bob.”

“Bob!” louder. “I understand! I get it!” She feels a slight sense of relief as she exhales in speech. She hangs up the phone.

“How you work for him I’ll never understand,” the brunette coworker comments.

(Don’t talk to me.)

She smiles. “You do what you gotta do.” She looks directly at the coworker who seems startled to see her eyes in return. Her body relaxes, she exhales and notices she is breathing.

1:00 p.m.

His heavy lanky fingers scrawl over head as he rubs and scratches his brain.

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob.\"

He feels warm but not yet panicked. Like a slow suffocation from the inside out.

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob.\"

He fails in an attempt to offer recognition to her voice and retires into a slumped position. He accepts the internal seductress that has beset him with a path to peace and sleep. He gives his eyes permission to close. It almost feels good.

She slowly closes the door and turns the blinds down. She begins to organize and shuffle the papers on his desk and credenza, walking comfortably around his sagging body. He hangs like an ape in the chair. An exhausted ape who is falling asleep.

\"Bob.\"

She opens his bottom drawer and shuffles beneath the protein bars and bags of dried soup that help him follow his journey for eternal life. The chemical soaked rag has marinated nicely in its glass container with the bottles of flavored teas. She glances down to see the nylon rope hiding behind the power strip at his feet.

\"Mary,” he mumbles.

She pretends not to hear him.

“Mary.”

(Don’t talk to me.)

“Mary….what’s going on.\" He felt his own adrenaline. Something was happening. He began to pat his pockets clumsily, his fingers desperately crawling for his cell phone.

\"Bob.”

She smiles.

“Mary.”

She nods yes.

“Mary.”

She laughs.

“Bob.”

She whispers.

“Are you looking for your cell phone? I have it. It\'s o.k. We\'ll have it look like you left it at the luncheon.\" She kneels down and begins to tie his ankles to his $1200 chair.

\"Bob.”

“Are you dead yet?\"

His head falls back. He hums and mumbles and lets his head roll back and forth across the leather of his chair. He notices his wrists tied to the chair. He cannot find the effort to jolt. He feels heavy. The mind swirls into a mental nausea. His back stiffens, his breathe stops and eyes stayed diverted straight ahead.

\"Bob.\"

“Are you dead yet?\"

“Are you dead yet?\"

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob. Are you dead yet?\"

\"Bob. Are you dead yet?\"

He is warm. He is at peace. It doesn\'t hurt yet. It’s that lovely stage of denial that you\'re dying, that last bit of hope that you might be able to magically hold on, regain your powers of an able human being and save our own ass. But you can\'t. Your intelligence tells you so. Now what? That\'s where he is. Chances to recover perish as the smell coming over him jolts him out of his despair.

\"Bob.\" She stands over him from behind, holding his head back gently but firmly, the rag placed firmly over his mouth and nose. First control, now pride, then existence. Pattern can be comforting.

She enjoys watching her biceps flex as she holds him. She feels her hands dryer from the rag as they push harder to obstruct his breathe. Her body stiffens, she takes in a deep breath and her mouth rest intimately against his neck.

Steady. Steady. Steady.

Limp.

\"Are you dead yet?\" she whispers.

“Bob.”

“Bob.”

“Are you dead yet?”

THE END

Description
8 a.m.

“Good morning Mary”.

She is ambushed from the time she steps foot into the parking lot. She reminds herself to breathe.

(Don’t talk to me.)

She nods and starts her inner coach. (Come on, you can do it.)

“Good morning Mary”.

Her chest tightens. She reminds herself to breathe and exhales loudly. Her badge ruins her outfit and she hates it.

(Do we HAVE to talk?)

She smiles.

“Good morning Mary”.

Her morning xanex begins to take effect. They knew better than to expect her to stop and chat. She grabs his Wall Street Journal and gets back on the elevator.

“Good morning Mary”.

(Quit talking to me.)

The elevator seemed to make things worse. She stared at the floor.

“Good morning Mary”.

Through the security door there is a thirty second path of freedom, where no one can see and no-one ever seems to pass by. She relishes a deep full breath. She turns the corner and glances through the glass wall. He is already here. Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead. She stifles an obvious cringe and turns to face him.

“Good morning Bob”. She removes the paper from its wet plastic wrapper and lays it down with baton twirling precision in one graceful movement. Her monotone allows her to appear as if she is not quite human and she has clearly mastered the art of seeing without looking. She welcomes his lack of response and walks stealthily to her cage. Not that it is safe.

“Mary”.

“Yes”.

“Mary”.

“Yes” a little louder.

Staring at her monitor she braces herself for the switch to flip. Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead.

“Mary”.

She is already out of breath.

“Yes Bob”. He ambushes her cage, shoving papers furiously towards her face. She slides her chair back to allow her body room to breathe and watches him knock over her pencil cup. His elbow jabs her as he attempts to gather the scattered pencils. She averts the pitiful stares of passing coworkers.

“Bob”.

He knocks the phone off the hook. The tone is loud and offensive. He slams it back down.

“Bob”.

He reshuffles his papers. She gathers the pencils.

“Are you done yet?” he snaps.

“Here is what I want from you this morning, in order of priority…..” The sound of his voice trails off into a dull lull as she focuses on the red and black marks on the pages before her. They are a giant maze he will chase her through until she finds the end. His starched cotton shirt scratches loosely up against her and she feels her skin try to jump away. Exhaling loudly, she reminds herself to breathe. She dodges his elbow as it thrusts back and forth towards her face.

“SO, we….” his voice trails off again. She listens to him repeat. Her eyes directly on the paper. He moves to the morning interrogation. Did you do this? Is it done yet? Where is this? What is this? Do this. Do that. Did you do that yet? What is the status on this?

“SO, are we done yet?” he concludes without a podium. She listens to him repeat.

In the end she nods and turns her focus to him as he walks into his office. She doesn’t mind looking at the back of his head. She doesn’t feel quite safe until he sits down. She exhales as he disappears from her eyes, but never from her ears.

The phone rings and rings. Put me in voicemail. Take a message. Can you check his calendar? Did you do it yet? The traffic swirls around the cube. What is his schedule? What is that one’s schedule? Do you have a copy? What time is the event? Are we done yet? Each attorney sends hand signals through the glass walls. Get the phone. Get my coffee. Get my package downstairs. Is it done yet? E-mails pop up like video game bombs. Print this. Find this. Do this. Are you done yet? She notices the numb. It’s cold in the office. She feels like a statue. Sitting in the middle of the fury, she attempts to warm herself with a mental cocoon.

“Mary”.

She pretends not to hear him.

“Mary”.

She bites her second xanex in two before swallowing. She cradles the bottle and gives it a loving squeeze before dropping it back into her purse.

“Mary!”

“Yes?” She slides down to see him, looking exasperated. Her eyes struggle not to roll for relief and her body lies limp across her desk.

“Are you done yet?”

Her mind races. “With what?”

“With my reservations for lunch today”.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“I can’t call them until 10:00 o’clock, remember,” she sing songs. Her co-workers walk by and offer her their morning glances of sympathy. She smiles and shrugs. The pity is no more comfortable.

She tries to lose herself in the mounds of paper before her. The ambition sucking lullaby of failure guides her through the uncomfortable familiarity of unimportance.

(How could one feel so smothered and so alone at the same time?)

Her body stiffens, her breath stops and her eyes avert straight ahead. She reminds herself to breath. Pattern can be comforting in ways. Click. Print. Sort. Staple. Stack. Alphabetize. Distribute. File. She watches herself repeat. Her feet swing and the phone is too far. No desk ever fits. She fights the self pity.

10:00 a.m.

Time for the mid-morning snack. She cringes tightly as she witnesses another fly by of paper bombs. Needing proof of her existence she stands up and her eyes examine ink marks that mock her. The scribbles begin to literally change form as she cocoons another layer over. Her eyes gloss over, her skin tingles and her body relaxes. It’s reminiscent of Novocain. She slouches, her feet still swinging.

“How you work for him I’ll never understand,” the blond coworker comments.

(Don’t talk to me.)

“You do what you gotta do,” she shrugs, her eyes never leaving the computer. She had mastered the art of minimization to endure. Seizing the opportunity of his absence to deliver the work she has completed, she gathers the water glasses and beverage bottles from his credenza. Glancing into his food drawer her breathe stops. She feels the adrenaline bleed over her cold numb soul. It feels good. It’s warm. She rushes out and reminds herself to breathe.

He returns with his beverage and snack and she listens to him repeat as he hangs over her ledge and flips through the newspaper. He smacks his green apple like a horse. It is almost more than she can bear.

“Are you done yet?”

“Mary.”

“Mary.”

“Are you done yet?”

“I’ve finished the first three and now I’m working on this.” Her eyes struggle not to roll in relief.

“Well o.k. but I also need you to remember to set up that video conference call for me, be sure and call all twelve assistants, and…..”. Her lullaby of failure keeps her focused. She can barely move. She listens to him repeat.

“Bob!”

“Bob!”

Another one wants him in their cave. He saunters his direction like an ape, the arrogance knocking into the walls around him. He is clumsy. She is quick. The drugs dissolve into the beverage with a spine tingling furor and she relishes in the joy the visual effervescence brings her. Her life seems to gush in the liquid as it dissolves into a gorgeous and peaceful calm.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“This is Mary.”

The surprise attack throws her off guard. She grabs her stencil and writes furiously, knocking about in her cage. (Why was everything so hard.) The ink marks tear the paper.

“Bob.”

“Bob.”

“Bob!” louder. “I understand! I get it!” She feels a slight sense of relief as she exhales in speech. She hangs up the phone.

“How you work for him I’ll never understand,” the brunette coworker comments.

(Don’t talk to me.)

She smiles. “You do what you gotta do.” She looks directly at the coworker who seems startled to see her eyes in return. Her body relaxes, she exhales and notices she is breathing.

1:00 p.m.

His heavy lanky fingers scrawl over head as he rubs and scratches his brain.

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob.\"

He feels warm but not yet panicked. Like a slow suffocation from the inside out.

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob.\"

He fails in an attempt to offer recognition to her voice and retires into a slumped position. He accepts the internal seductress that has beset him with a path to peace and sleep. He gives his eyes permission to close. It almost feels good.

She slowly closes the door and turns the blinds down. She begins to organize and shuffle the papers on his desk and credenza, walking comfortably around his sagging body. He hangs like an ape in the chair. An exhausted ape who is falling asleep.

\"Bob.\"

She opens his bottom drawer and shuffles beneath the protein bars and bags of dried soup that help him follow his journey for eternal life. The chemical soaked rag has marinated nicely in its glass container with the bottles of flavored teas. She glances down to see the nylon rope hiding behind the power strip at his feet.

\"Mary,” he mumbles.

She pretends not to hear him.

“Mary.”

(Don’t talk to me.)

“Mary….what’s going on.\" He felt his own adrenaline. Something was happening. He began to pat his pockets clumsily, his fingers desperately crawling for his cell phone.

\"Bob.”

She smiles.

“Mary.”

She nods yes.

“Mary.”

She laughs.

“Bob.”

She whispers.

“Are you looking for your cell phone? I have it. It\'s o.k. We\'ll have it look like you left it at the luncheon.\" She kneels down and begins to tie his ankles to his $1200 chair.

\"Bob.”

“Are you dead yet?\"

His head falls back. He hums and mumbles and lets his head roll back and forth across the leather of his chair. He notices his wrists tied to the chair. He cannot find the effort to jolt. He feels heavy. The mind swirls into a mental nausea. His back stiffens, his breathe stops and eyes stayed diverted straight ahead.

\"Bob.\"

“Are you dead yet?\"

“Are you dead yet?\"

\"Bob.\"

\"Bob. Are you dead yet?\"

\"Bob. Are you dead yet?\"

He is warm. He is at peace. It doesn\'t hurt yet. It’s that lovely stage of denial that you\'re dying, that last bit of hope that you might be able to magically hold on, regain your powers of an able human being and save our own ass. But you can\'t. Your intelligence tells you so. Now what? That\'s where he is. Chances to recover perish as the smell coming over him jolts him out of his despair.

\"Bob.\" She stands over him from behind, holding his head back gently but firmly, the rag placed firmly over his mouth and nose. First control, now pride, then existence. Pattern can be comforting.

She enjoys watching her biceps flex as she holds him. She feels her hands dryer from the rag as they push harder to obstruct his breathe. Her body stiffens, she takes in a deep breath and her mouth rest intimately against his neck.

Steady. Steady. Steady.

Limp.

\"Are you dead yet?\" she whispers.

“Bob.”

“Bob.”

“Are you dead yet?”

THE END