YAWN

PHONE! – the tiny sticky note screamed from the top of the dark cherry desk, not wanting to be forgotten. She picked her nose in solitude with the tip of her pinky fingernail. Laughter echoed from up above somewhere in the sixteen foot ceiling. She turned her head side to side and up to spy some set of eyes peering out from behind some cold air return or heat vent. “Paranoia” will destroy ya” her husband used to quote a song, maybe a friend or a movie. Condensation slid down the McDonald’s waxed cup, formed a wet O and her armpits returned the sentiment. The long hand reached to grab the next minute, while the gray skies spat at its effort.

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