A Short Story by Louis Wittig
5:07 on Friday evening—already into the weekend, already into my time—and I was still in the office. I leaned backwards against the printer and tried to match my inhales to its sweeping circular hum.
I was the last one here, except for Marilyn. Looking out over the field of squat, waist-high desk partitions that had replaced our cubicle walls sometime last year I saw her slouched back in her chair. Her mouth was open, though she didn’t appear to know it, and she was reading an astrology blog.
