Beech Brothers
He slides the drawer back into place and tugs his chair harder than he intended. As it tips and clatters onto the floor, the angels raise their golden heads. Carol flashes him a smile as she disappears into the corridor jingling change and swinging her plastic tray. But Marion (aka Badangel) wanders towards the desk, tilts her head and looks down at the paperclip face.
“Good, innit? Must have taken him ages. The mouth’s a picture… and that hair. I reckon Frank’s a bit of an artist.”
She must be joking. Mustn’t she? Deep breath. Ignore her. Carry on. Soothed by the hollow plop of pens dropping softly into their chipped blue mug, he straightens the files, puts the stapler away, unhooks the paperclips one by one and counts them into their pot one two… When everything’s in its proper place it’ll be just like it never was. But Badangel won’t let it lie.
“That wild look. What’s the word for it? Like kids do, or those ancient cavemen. There’s something really sexy about it. I’ll try it down the Toucan one night.”
Don’t say it. Not out loud. Don’t say
“Why not? You’ve tried everything else.”
Her eyes are little dark pointy needles.
“No need to be sarky, you know. Don’t take it out on the rest of us, just because Frank’s got up your nose. Anyway, look on the bright side. It could be a blessing in disguise.”
He stops, the thirteenth paperclip poised. Ignore. Ignore ignore ig…
“What d’you mean?”
She lifts a shapely eyebrow.
“You know what they say about a neat desk.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You must do. On those funny postcards.”
She slides a hand around his chair, her blonde head bending close to his. As she leans forward he smells her skin, sees her smooth and bursting inside her blouse. Her warm breath whispers in his ear.
“A sick mind, that’s what they say it means. A neat desk means you’ve got a sick mind.”
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