You would think it is too early for this shit, but I have come to understand that this shit is perpetual.
Broworker hangs his sweaty gym shirt on a small hook on the side of the water cooler where it is sort of camouflaged against the color of dispenser. I lift it, thinking it is a tote bag or a misplaced something. It is wet and cold, and upon immediate realization of what it is, I drop it, flinging it backwards against the wall where it falls, into a small, wet pile of post-workout clothes. Furious, I walk to the bathroom and wash my hands.
I return to the kitchen, open the espresso machine and scoop up some old grounds. I sprinkle them generously on the now-hidden fallen shirt. I walk back to my desk.
Sarah Jean Alexander wrote this story from the 11th floor somewhere on 29th street in Manhattan. Her first book, Wildlives, has more stories and poems unrelated to the workplace coming from Big Lucks Books in February 2015.
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