Office Chemical Warfare
I entered briefly only but to wash my hands and suddenly my olfactory senses were brutally assaulted. I wanted to run straight away, but already had soap on my hands. I thought I was going to throw up. I was already aiming at the sink. I held my breath to the best of my ability and made a Krameresque exit. Someone saw my exit. I was embarrassed, but I shouldn't be embarrassed when I was trying not to die.
I convened with one of my colleagues and she confirmed that she had been a victim of such an assault. She appealed to my sense of sympathy and said that surely this person had medical issues. I agreed, but still had more sympathy for me, a victim of the nuclear pooper.
A couple of days passed and I was able to pee in peace. Then one day, I went back to the restroom. It was quiet. I thought I was alone and then heard a lazy stirring. It was like a crocodile hiding stealthily in the mud. Ambush! I squeezed the pee out of me as fast as I could, but she had already begun her business. Mentally I had timed how long it would take for her atomic odor to hit the air and how long I had to wash my hands. I made it.
One day my colleague came to my desk and asked if I was ready for knowledge. I thought this was a general question and replied yes. She asked me to follow her and I did. Then she had me glance to someone and her shoes. “Those shoes there, belong to her.” They were black flats with big round gold buckles. I don’t know if identification of the nuclear pooper made me feel any better. I now know, not to go into the restroom after her and I religiously do buckles sweep when I enter it.
The cubicle jockey job is only a cover. Writer of poems, observations, and short stories.
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