You hurry out of the bp and run straight smack into one of the mysterious people you spend your working hours emailing but have never seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched in person.
Or do you?
It could be just another Creature from Middle Management from some far-off, exotic department you are unaware of. There is no way of knowing. This is an international corporation, after all, and you are a very small cog in the immense machine.
But how fitting it would be for one of your contacts to see you like this right after you've sent them one of your brief missives of barely-concealed rage.
Your left eye has welled up due to the perpetual coughing fit you've been suppressing all morning. A large tear rolls down the bridge of your nose.
The stranger offers you a perplexed look before hurrying on her way.
She thinks I've been crying.
You continue your coughing fit in the office kitchen.
it's amateur hour
