"You aren't allowed to play solitaire on company time" 

 

"w-w-what?" You stammer, forcefully ripped back into reality.

 

Suddenly the handsome face leaning in to kiss you melts into that of Angela, her huge bi-focalled lenses staring back at you.  You grimace in disgust at the tragic end to your tantalizing daydream. 

 

"I said, you are not supposed to be playing solitaire on company time".  She looks at you with an odd skewed look on her face, probably confused by the look of sheer horror on your face.  

 

You fight to erase the disturbing image from your mind.  Angela's frame towers over you like the Leaning Tower of Piza, although much less remarkable.  She is balancing a stack of reports and folders against her disproportionately small chest.  Her dishwater blond hair is pinned tight against her head and pulled into a severe ponytail.  You fear that her eyes may pop from their sockets if she pulls it any tighter.  Another lovely image.  A few greasy tendrils escape the lockdown and flee down her cheeks.  She puts the pile of papers on the corner of your desk and nabs a stray tendril and tucks it neatly away behind her spock-like ears.   

 

You say nothing, as you are still working to compose yourself after your rude awakening from your steamy daydream. 

 

"Mr. McAllister wants these done by Monday at 10:00am.  No excuses.  And why aren't you at lunch?" she asks snidely as she glances up at the clock.

 

You head snaps to attention, focussing fully on the clock.  1:10!  Sonofabitch!  You jump up from your chair, knocking the precariously balanced pile to the ground in a flutter of loose papers.  

 

Angela gasps, dropping immediately to her knees, clearly appalled by your lack of judgement.  You push her to the side and rush down the aisle to the elevator, leaving her to restack your evening work.

 

    You stand impatienty outside the elevator, watching the numbers intently as they count down.  The stop on 5 and stay there, seemingly for an eternity.