You’ll have to hurry if you’re going to get rid of the evidence before your coworker makes it over here and realizes what you’ve done.
You stick the half-eaten sandwich back in its baggie and fold the top down on the Fig Newtons, placing both next to the untouched apple in the paper bag. You look around to make sure no one’s watching, but per usual, you’re about as interesting to your coworkers as one of the ficus trees that management keeps claiming will “up productivity by bringing green space inside.”
Body hunching over the bag to shield it from prying eyes, you sneak out of your cube towards the back stairs. You’ve made it to the break room and are just opening the fridge when you hear a nasal whine over your left shoulder.
“Isn’t that Pheobe’s lunch?”
Pheobe! That’s her name. You were close. You knew it started with a fuh-sound.
But you can’t celebrate now, because Morgan, your office nemesis, is sneering triumphantly at you, clearly aware that this is a golden opportunity to totally fuck you over.
“How did…I mean, no, it’s not. Why would you even say that?”
Morgan’s expression somehow manages to become even smugger, something you would have hardly thought possible.
Goddammit, fuck Morgan. What a piece of shit.
Wait, couldn’t you blackmail Morgan into keeping quiet? Click here.
Or maybe pity is the better way to Morgan’s cold, black heart. Can you make Morgan pity you so deeply that telling is no longer an option? Click here.