A small flame burned in and burned my hand, "I want to lick your sideburns." Computers computed staplers stapled paperclips paperclipped copiers copied rubberbands rubberbanded officeworkers officeworked and chatted. Had to get rid of it. Because it was not just some innocent lemon meringue Post-It but a small flame in my hand, burning in and burning.
It said, "I want to lick your sideburns." I don’t know where or who or what it came for, but not here. Not here on the eighth floor amidst the dry air tasting of laser toner, it did not come from here. It couldn’t have come from here but it was here, it was in my hand (burning) reading, "I want to lick your sideburns." And it was in my hand.
My instinct was to throw it away, then I thought. I thought someone might find it I thought that’s silly how could they link it back to me and what would it prove I thought it would be better to gain control of the situation. I needed to burn it. To burn it I needed to wait for lunch. I get off for an hour then.
The handwriting was feminine so maybe the Post-It was genuine and she is somewhere wanting and waiting to lick my sideburns. I’m okay with that. I wonder which desk she sits at. I keep fumbling and fingering it around with my hand in my pocket getting blue ink on my hands perhaps obscuring the intricacies of the code. Nervous and acting weird I decide to hit the head because there a man can think FOR HIMSELF AND BY HIMSELF! And I want to look at it.
Bathroom I go to always smells gross and you’d think apparently grown men would’ve learned to flush by now: the last remaining solitary cubicle. Held it out in his hand like leaf or flower and looked at the sweat smudged letters he had worked over for the last halfhour and thought of the girl with the "my attitude problem is you" sign above her desk that I thought of before. It was a kinda low point- but exciting. Really exciting.
The girl with the "my attitude is you" sign above her desk looks a little sad. I love private things about her wordlessly understood. We are telepathic together. Not pretty in the usual sorta way but I like how she looks. We practically spend all our time together, because, you know, we work together. At work we maintain a professional relationship, I told her not to write anymore. I'm not sure why I'm so scared of being caught but better safe than sorry, I figure. One day she will bend for the bubbler and I will give her a little spanking. She's like that- a little naughty. But you would never know by looking at her, straight blonde hair like that girl I used to think of.