The Stapler

It’s doomed really. I mean office romances are never the greatest idea. Sure, I’ve heard the statistics that relationships that start with a little flirting over the photocopier machine are more likely to end in marriage. And that’s great, lucky them. But she and I, we’re different. She’s all modern-like, and gets everything done over email. She’d far rather drop someone a line than bother to get up and walk across the office for a talk. I guess she finds it more efficient that way.

Me, I’m more old fashioned than all that– I’m all about paperwork and keeping it all together. I guess one day they’ll make me redundant. Say something about how I didn’t move with the times. That’ll hurt, but I really don’t think I could do it any other way.

Either way, it means she has very little use for me. Maybe once a week she’ll search me out. I’ll hear her asking whether anyone’s seen me recently, and I want to yell out ‘here’. Instead though I play it cool and wait. When she does find me our encounter is very matter of fact, simply going through the process absentmindedly as she works her way through her chores and rushes back to her computer. Those moments though, when she touches me – I tingle and basically explode, the light, and yet firm and fast, clasp of her hand. I don’t really get that with anyone else, no matter how solid their grip.

But as I’ve said, we’re worlds apart. I’ve seen her looking for jobs occasionally on her computer, and me – well, my time is running out. I’ll miss her though, whichever of us leaves this place first. As I do already on the weekend, as I miss all of them on the weekends – the noise, the laughter, the general being…

HER: Where’s the fucking stapler?