July 7th, 2018

  6:25 PM

  The office of Henderson Connections is sparsely littered with people. They’re working with a skeleton crew today. Crisp cold air heavy with angst, hot coffee filled with burbling rage, and warm papers fresh from the printer. Rain is pelting the walls and windows, a low pitter-patter. The two secretaries silently bumbling around swiping up old papers and putting new ones down. Deb from accounting is swearing under her breath, that beat up calculator of hers groaning in agony as her fat fingers slammed in a new set of numbers into the plastic buttons. Giuseppe’s manning his battle station, updating forums on a program made before the twin towers fell. Klara was still in her gaudy pink leopard print raincoat, evidence of her last smoke break. She was studying insurance policies all across the Iberian Peninsula, when she wasn’t smoking Mallburrows like an old man. No one was happy. They risked their lives just getting here. Now they were working overtime on a Saturday because some rich fuck in Portugal crashed his yacht into one of their cargo ships. Thousands of orders gone in a day. And now they were here, getting that 2971-9 to smooth out a mistake they didn’t make. The money was nice, but that part doesn’t really matter when you’re too cold to spend it. And just beneath the surface, they all knew it.

  “God fucking damn…” Saffron says under her breath, rubbing the bridge of her nose with both of her hands. She got called in on a perfectly good Saturday. It even rained, the baleful heat receding to a more habitable temperature. But she was on the clock, at her ‘normal fucking job’, wishing that she out doing deliveries again. Alas, fantasies don’t pay the bills, so she was filling out paperwork with a shitty black Bick ballpoint, you know the ones. The kind with the clear case that you can get a dozen for a few dollars. It’s a small annoyance, writing with such a cheap instrument, but it's drowned out by the deep aching in her right palm. She’d been writing nonstop since she got there. Form after form of random paperwork and notices. The stuff her boss should be looking at, but of course it lands on her desk. Jason Henderson inherited this company from his father. Since he got here, he hasn't done a lick of real work or management. That nepobaby was probably still in his office. Probably.

  With a sigh, Saffron pushes away from her cubicle. She stands up, stretching a bit and smoothing out her pencil skirt and blouse before walking to the back of the office, towards the restrooms. Or restroom, now. Jason was on a hot streak, so had the wall between the men’s and women’s restroom knocked down with his winnings, to create “a more inclusive environment for his employees”. A thinly veiled excuse to be in the restroom with Klara, but Saffron doesn’t get paid to call that out that string of HR violations; The gambling, the blatant harassment, or the dozen other grimy stunts Jason pulled. She gets paid to keep the books in order. The restroom is quite large now. On the right, three yellowed urinals next to five stalls. on the left, eight stalls pressed against each other. The row of sinks was now on the far wall, six in total with a mirror above each one.

  The very first stall was occupied, but the door was wide open. From what you could see, there was a set of flawless white high heels, and a set of black polished dress shoes in the stall. heels pointing towards the toilet, in a rather wide gait. the dress shoes were facing away from the shitter. As she walked past the open door of the stall, her suspicions were confirmed. It was Jason and Klara, the woman sitting on his lap, straddling him. Thankfully the two were clothed, a white sundress on top of black slacks and a white dress shirt. Klara was… aggressive. She was kissing and nipping at Jason. One thing stood out, even in this odd situation. Saffron could see Klara’s breath. Long, deep puffs of white air flowing from her mouth. But she discounted it. Klara was a prolific nicotine addict, maybe she got a hold of some newfangled vape pen. And normally, Klara didn't even give Jason the time of day. But maybe this is just how the got down in private. Saffron didn’t want to see or hear anymore than she had to, walking past the stall. Her black loafers squeaking on the tile, scuttling down to the very last stall near the sinks. Not her circus, not her monkeys.

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  Saffron didn’t actually have to use the facilities. She just sat on the notably cold porcelain, scrolling on her phone to pass time and to try and ignore the passionate make-out sesh. She forgot her earbuds at her desk, so she had to listen. Tuning out the lovebirds, the CDAM app was popping with notifications, users in her area reporting in on some anomaly. But CDAM was always buzzing, some insensitive asshole pointing out every little odd thing, calling wolf on dachshunds, sometimes literally. Pynterest was different. Past the Vantaa Wasp repellent recipes and the security camera ads, she could find some solace something that wasn’t going horribly. Puppies playing, kittens gnawing through a comically large fish, maybe the occasional recipe with ingredients Saff couldn’t afford. In one hand, she had her cheap workhorse of a phone, screen more cracked then a poor neighborhood in the 80’s. And in the other, she was fidgeting, twirling her grandmother’s fountain pen to pass the time. It was a much needed reprieve. The restroom was a bit colder than usual, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe Jason or Klara touched the thermostat…

  Saffron’s thumb stalls mid-swipe, hazel eyes damn near burning a hole into the shattered display. Klara was at her desk. I was facing her direction the whole time. But she’s in here… on Jason’s lap? I would have noticed if she got up. And who the fuck wears white on white when it's raining?

  Her thumbs move again, tucking the prized pen into her blouse pocket. Immediately, she silences the ringer on her phone. With a deep breath, she sends a frantic text to Klara.

  “Hey, are you still at your desk?” Saffron Inquires. Seconds drain by like molasses. Her ears were painfully aware, each eager smooch seemingly ringing off the walls. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, her pulse pounding in anticipation.

  “Yes. Why are you asking?”

  “Can you send me a selfie? I’ll explain later.”

  Klara complies, sending a photo. It’s her alright, long brown hair in a messy bun and her signature librarian glasses. The photo is from the shoulders up, the collar of a pinstripe blouse and the eye-melting hot pink of her raincoat were in frame. Klara’s clearly still in the office, part of her desk in frame. Klara sends another text, asking for some context, but Saff doesn’t respond. Instead, all her hairs were standing on end, listening to the restroom.

  Saffron can still hear kissing from the open stall, the occasional bit of pillow talk coming from a sultry lull of Klara’s voice.