by Tiffany Vakilian
I keep worrying if my underwear can be seen through my pants here at work. I keep glancing at my fingernails and getting lost. I keep wondering where this Boulder Dam bursting headache came from and when it will go back there. But this has nothing to do with my submission today.
Plot – A girl (me) wants to write a story.
Conflict – She’s 37, at work, busy, and tired (with a funky landfill of a headache).
So I sit here, collecting words, and put my purple pen to notepad, mindful of the fourth wall and my being on the wrong side of it. I like it here, somewhat. It’s a tad lonesome and kinda sexy too. I imagine titillating brushstrokes of calligraphy ink to paper, and then think of my husband – perhaps the reason for my headache. That could be taken in a good or bad way.
Man, if I get caught writing this at work that last paragraph alone may get me sent home. I feel like such a rebel. Can freedom be like this? Confined, but present?
I run free within the secret garden of surreptitious fences and aromatic phrases, despite the pain of weeding and the excitement of possible discovery as I push my own fruit through, as if I were travailing with a story.
These words, are they stolen, or secret? A moment here; a moment there; a misused semicolon because the Chicago Book of Style is still unordered. Adding words, dynamic commas and periods forming from a moment here and there, as I said before, oops.
I should be spanked for redundancy – redundantly!
Well, it comes to light. These words are stolen times. I should be typing or designing, or, well, doing something for the office. But the work-life balance is a gray area, and California Labor Laws say I get to take breaks, so let’s call it a wash. Pen touches paper in fleeting crashes, a love affair within the bondage of work; breaking the contract by breaking free, orgasmically artistic.
It is finished, I am spent, and my husband is waiting.
I am submitting again.
Now HERE is someone bored at work and pushing their own fruit through. Not quite what Tiffany meant, but proving to all that graduation from the seventh grade still eludes the editor-in-chief!