And I could write a songIt's death by Coldplay today.
A hundred miles long
Well, that's where I belong
And you belong with me
I really need to call in sick most of next week or my wee little brain won't survive. I've already had one nosebleed this afternoon. That's my brain, exploded against the inside of my skull, leaking out in tiny crimson increments.
He's singing along with Swallowed in the Sea. He intuitively sets me up and I fall for it every time. I hope the letter opener is sharp for I intend to throw myself on it shortly. But Caleb knows me well. He's hidden the goddamned thing and now he keeps offering to make us some coffee because we both have headaches. Our work is just about done for the day.
Sure, but before you go do you have the letter opener so I can deal with the mail?
I smile sweetly and he hands me the choice instrument of my death today.
He turns back at the door. Bridget, it won't kill you, just probably require you to have stitches and possibly antibiotics so unless you want to spend the afternoon being fussed over by the Russian physician I think you should perhaps choose a different method. I'm partial to erotic asphyxiation if you're interested. I can't guarantee success but we could have fun trying.
I can't believe you just said that.
I can't believe you're trying to get out of work by maiming yourself with office supplies.
Not like you haven't used the duct tape for a similar purpose before, Caleb.
Duct tape has no business being in the office. It's purely for pleasure.
Maybe you should be the face of duct tape, then, and change the image people have of it.
Maybe you should, since it's usually your face it's on.
I'm going to go home now.
Can I come? I'll bring the tape.
Naw. You stay here and open envelopes. Alone.
DAMN YOU.