The last office

I discovered it just in time ninety nine posts along a journey I never intended or planned but there it was the last office, so resigned already a halfghost….one last creak inside. The door juddered open, hung with large nailbreaking staples they used to put in the big machines you had to lean on until they were left empty but no-one took them away, leaving a scattered army with no war to fight. A small welcome wave of paper dust brushed across the floor, gyrating in the light from the twisting halfclosed metal blind easing one eye open after a lunchtime drink slugged the whole afternoon away. A dry taste on the air you can write your name in. Silence, the frozen whirr of the beige noise that masked the monotony beneath, like worsted on bare skin. A fax machine, ochred like a hospital dalek, yawning its last paper jam you fix it this time. In tray out tray the ones you assembled yourself with the little shiny poles you can have red or green and if you’re rebellious you can mix them but you can’t order them like that which means two of you have to be rebellious and so it not really rebellion is it. Chair with a tippex signature belongs to Trisha its mine keep off or I’l I’ll I’ll not sure but keep off anyway unless you want people to think you’re called Trisha when they walk past in the gunbarrell of a corridor that reaches to the darkness of the end of the known universe and the hr department who see you when you arrive and see you when you leave but not that many leave and some leave and no-one knows for an age until they need them and they’re not there just a shadow where they used to be or someone new looking uncertain eyes flitting like they’re looking through a painting. The loose brushstroles of brownwash across the décor ending at the four legged creature too slow even for extinction, veneer peeling from its blunt nose like sunburn the rolodex rolorolorolorolodex grinningspinning as if a pro-plus gerbil, the olympic venn cuprings stumbling upon their own conclusion. Manilla yesterday’s vanilla stacked piled scattered on the shelves of the stationery cupboard its doors hung open like a salesman’s jacket pssst wanna buy some blutac harder than cement or dreadlocked tippex or envelopes skidmarked where the glue once hoped for closure or stickynotes waiting to be reminded of what they have long since forgotten or pencils who uses pencils anymore and what’s hb. And in the pantry instant coffee the forgotten bastard son of a bitter bean, bagged dandruff dusted from the bare feet that walk the plantation floor, sugar congealing itself without molars to encrust, and lost legions of ants homesick for cracks in the crazy paving.  I want to slip out and leave it to sleep the long-drawn anaesthetising breath still softly exhaling so when the concrete disco ball plunges through the window to the ironic strains of stayin’ alive it won’t feel a thing. They say the office is back in fashion yahoo! yeah-who? and the outdoor miners, the wandering flexidickwhittingtons spotted knotted hankie look after my kit while I’m having a pee plea any port with a usb anyone remember me, are returning home. Whatever will they find in the rubble?

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