Tag: by Glen Pourciau
I’m a better person than a particular author of a particular story says I am and I won’t keep quiet about it any longer. One reason I can’t hold my peace is that the author is my husband.
A guy in a suit, I don’t know him, walks by my cubicle holding one of the paper plates, his mouth full, chewing his last bite, folds the plate around his napkin and fork and cake crumbs, leans into my cubicle, reaches around a corner and stuffs the plate in my garbage can. No look, no excuse me, no nothing.