With surgical precision, Arthur hacked the artisanal roll into six equal, microscopic cubes. The prosciutto shredded. The Camembert oozed out onto the dull grey laminate of his desk. The fig glaze smeared into a sticky purple puddle.
"Is that... fig?" Miller’s head rose another three inches. I Hope You Brought Enough for Everyone! (16.12....
Arthur Smedley took his snacks very seriously. In his forty-two years at the Department of Records, he had never once partaken in the communal box of stale donuts in the breakroom. No, Arthur brought his own. With surgical precision, Arthur hacked the artisanal roll
Within ten seconds, the cubicle aisle was empty. Arthur sat alone at his desk, staring at the five lonely, mutilated squares of sourdough. They were ruined, but as he picked up a sticky piece of crust, Arthur smiled. It was a small price to pay for peace. The fig glaze smeared into a sticky purple puddle