She sat in the cubicle that indicated her independence. Drones of the machine surrounded her, caused by either the air conditioning or the upper management. She resisted the urge to take off the high heels that ached her feet. The silk blouse hid the red, inflamed parts of her body; she ignored the shrieks of her bones and purple flames of pain coursing through her head. The mechanical sounds of whispered laughter caught her ears at times, but she dared not look up. The cubicle in front of her held a woman in her early thirties, embittered by the wasted BA in sociology and ten years within these walls. She incessantly plays the local top forty-radio station. This woman would idly think if she added a dollar sign to her name and had slept with more men, she would have had more success in life. More likely however, she will just be asked to turn the music down on Fridays, after those around her spent too much time and money at happy hour the night before.
The guy in his late twenties who sat across the aisle considered himself a ‘man’s man’. Wrinkled khakis and faded red polo shirt was his daily uniform, casual days or not. He drank 20 ounces of mountain dew daily to hide the bags under his eyes, caused by the late nights of playing World of Warcraft. He used to go across the aisle and talk to her, until one day when they had this conversation:
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