"Chicken?" He held up a package of four cutlets nestled together on yellow Styrofoam.

"I just don't understand why she would say such a thing. It's completely horrid. And at work of all places!" She began rustling through her purse. "I'm just sick and tired of having to get in the middle of things."

"Why don't you just stay out of it then?" he asked. He was answered with an annoyed stare. Jake wasn't sure why he decided to start paying attention to the conversation at that moment, but quickly made the decision to back out again. "How about spaghetti?"

"Try to imagine what it's like working with the two of them all day long!" She tossed a can of green beans into her basket. "Sometimes I can't even think over their bickering. I wish cubicles were sound proof, trust me, but since they're not, someone has to be the peacemaker."

"How about pork chops? I can make my mom's gravy with that..."

"It's just her overall attitude! It irritates me. If she wasn't there, the whole office would be a better place. I wouldn't have to worry about picking up her slack and Christine wouldn't have anything to complain about. That's it. I'm bringing the issue to HR on Monday." She picked the cereal aisle to make her stand. The effect was lost as annoyed shoppers nudged her out of the way to grab boxes of sugar o's.

"I'm kind of in the mood for pizza."

"Yeah...ok," she agreed.

"I know it's in here somewhere..." she mumbled as she rifled through his desk drawer for a third time.


She had stopped paying attention to the chaos downstairs in exchange for her own. I, on the other hand, had dedicated all of my energy to finding an element of peace.


"You could help you know." I knew, but was completely disinterested in her search. I didn't really want to go anyway. In fact, I hoped that everyone would get soo frustrated that the whole group would disperse. Then I could work on my play.

I don't like to think of myself as a playwright, but rather, a dramatist. As a general rule, all of my productions are enacted in my head. I never actually come to write down a script or block a scene. And I prefer not to deal with actors. The show just goes on in my mind. Not only am I allowed the creative freedom to express my neo-post-modern vision, but my methods are much easier on the pocket.

"Another day passes." She stopped and turned slightly as the drum faded off into the distance. I have never been able to shake that image from my mind. It rushes back to me every time I catch the slightest hint of sea salt draped in peppermint on a dawning breeze.

She changed that night and I liked to think that I changed right along with her. But what I didn't realize then was that I had been evolving the whole time. I had left her behind.

"Meow," said Mr. Tom, the cat, more to himself than to the crowd that had gathered around the increasingly gaping hole in the floor.

"What do you make of it?" asked the stringy haired blond. Her sweatshirt was faded red and had a neck stretched beyond the limits of fashion, (if one could consider a faded sweatshirt fashionable in the first place).

"It started last Tuesday," replied Maura. "It's a giant hole and it just keeps getting bigger." Maura always had a knack for stating the obvious and the crowd found itself capitivated with her response.

Mr. Tom circled meticulously before settling down in the perfect spot on the carpet. "I think I should like a tuna sandwich," he thought.