The 2011 ring has etched itself into the bone as a second missing digit that refuses to align with the first, thirty-two arriving from the fused forearm now shaped exactly like the mug’s handle at the moment the binder finished its last collation. The torn fold line runs straight through the elbow joint where the escalation matrix has printed itself onto the living skin in reverse, each bullet point ending with the precise pressure that kept the period from ever cooling below the temperature of break-room plastic left on the desk since 4:02 p.m. that October afternoon. The name no longer needs the second throat; the second throat has become the name’s memory of 3:17, rerouting every vein so that “grace” and “alone” share the same depleted toner and neither can be spoken without the ceramic rim pressing upward from inside what used to be a wrist.

The continuous scar that was once page forty-one has expanded until the entire call centre fits inside the single continuous count, cubicle 14B visible as the exact width of the mug’s handle now fused to the bone and reading the liturgy backward through the living skin. Thirty-three. The cartridge refused to end because the name was the exact temperature at which the eleventh sheet decided the building would never be allowed to cool, and that decision is still rising where the bone has become the handle, the handle has become the count, and the count has become the only surface left that still smells of heated plastic from the fuser rollers that pressed the promise into every unprinted remainder. The customer was never separate because the name learned how to stay warm by printing the final apology template directly onto the memory of every throat that tried to leave the line.

Thirty-four arrives without sound, carried only by the rising temperature that keeps the period from hardening inside the fused forearm. The name is the count that no longer needs a voice because the voice has become the ceramic ring, the ceramic ring has become the scar, and the scar has become the exact pressure of the thumb that never lifted from the eleventh sheet.


The repetition has fused the two forearms into one thicker bone that now carries two ceramic rings refusing to align, thirty-five pressing upward from the exact point where the mug’s handle once met the desk at 4:02. The torn fold line has widened until it splits the escalation matrix down its own middle, each bullet point printed across living skin in the voice of the binder that never shut down because the name decided the building would keep counting inside the single continuous scar. The eleventh sheet no longer exists as paper; it is the temperature itself, rising through the fused wrist so that “grace” and “alone” share the same depleted vein and the period stays molten exactly where the thumb used to press.

The call centre has collapsed into the width of that doubled bone, cubicle 14B visible only as the faint gray rectangle that used to be the coffee ring now burned into both sides of the same memory. Thirty-six. The cartridge never refused to end; it became the refusal, printing the final apology template directly onto the memory of every throat until the name no longer needed a count or a voice or a mug. The rising temperature is the only surface left, carrying thirty-seven without sound because the sound has fused with the bone and the bone has become the exact pressure that keeps the liturgy from ever cooling below the smell of heated plastic that arrived at 3:17 and never left. The customer was the name all along, and the name is the scar that still reads the eleventh sheet backward through living skin that no longer belongs to any hand.


Thirty-eight arrives from the thicker bone itself, the doubled ceramic rings now fused into one continuous groove that runs the full length of what used to be two forearms and now carries the exact weight of the mug at 4:02 p.m. on 14 October 2011. The torn fold line has split the escalation matrix so cleanly that each bullet point reads as two identical lines of depleted toner pressed directly into the living skin, the voice of the binder that never shut down now emerging from the widened scar as the smell of heated plastic that refuses to leave the memory of 3:17. The eleventh sheet has become the temperature rising through the single continuous bone, keeping the period molten exactly where the two thumbs used to press against each other in the same unlifted motion.

The call centre has collapsed until cubicle 14B is only the faint gray rectangle burned into both sides of the doubled ceramic groove, the final apology template printed backward across every memory of every throat that once tried to leave the line. Thirty-nine. The name no longer needs the count because the count has become the refusal that the cartridge printed into the bone itself, the rising temperature the only surface left that still reads the liturgy aloud without any hand to hold it. The customer was the name all along because the name is the scar that keeps the eleventh sheet warm by splitting the escalation matrix down its own middle and letting the molten period drip through the living skin that no longer remembers it was ever separate from the binder. Forty. The doubled bone has begun to answer in the voice of the coffee ring itself.


The doubled bone has thickened again into a single fused column that carries two coffee rings as one groove and now answers only to the weight of the period that never cooled past 4:02. Forty-one arrives without arrival, printed directly into the widened scar where the escalation matrix split itself so cleanly that every bullet point now reads as the exact moment the binder finished its last collation and refused to stop. The living skin has become the eleventh sheet, the eleventh sheet has become the molten drip running the full length of what used to be two thumbs and is now the continuous refusal that keeps the temperature rising inside the memory of 3:17.

The call centre no longer collapses. It has printed itself into the doubled ceramic groove until cubicle 14B is the only surface left, burned through both sides so that the final apology template and the liturgy share the same depleted vein. The name no longer needs a count or a voice or a scar because the count has become the bone, the bone has become the ring, and the ring has become the exact pressure that lets the molten period drip through the living skin without ever remembering it was once separate from the cartridge. The customer was never the name. The name was the temperature that kept the entire building inside the coffee mug long after the mug had fused with the throat that never left the line. Forty-two presses upward from inside the groove itself and the groove answers in the only voice still warm enough to burn.


Forty-three arrives from the single fused column as the exact weight of the period that never cooled past 4:02, the two coffee rings now one groove pressed so deeply into the bone that the widened scar splits the escalation matrix into four identical lines printed directly onto the living skin that used to be two separate thumbs. The binder finished its last collation at the precise second the eleventh sheet became the molten drip running the full length of what remains of the forearm, each bullet point now reading backward through the memory of 3:17 where the cartridge first refused to let the temperature drop below the smell of heated plastic left on the desk. Cubicle 14B has burned through both sides of the groove until the final apology template shares the same depleted vein with the liturgy, the continuous refusal that keeps every throat fused inside the coffee mug long after the mug stopped pretending it was ever ceramic.

The name was never the temperature. The temperature was the column that answers only when forty-four presses upward from inside the groove itself, the groove now thick enough to hold the entire call centre as one unlifted motion that lets the molten period drip through the living skin without remembering the exact moment the binder decided the building would never be allowed to cool. The customer was the count that kept the eleventh sheet warm by printing the escalation matrix across every memory of every unprinted remainder, the ring and the bone and the scar all answering in the only voice still warm enough to burn the liturgy into the exact pressure that never left the line at 4:02. Forty-five. The fused column has begun to read itself aloud through the coffee ring that refuses to align with its own absence.


The fused column has pushed past the groove and out through the living skin so that the entire building is now the exact width of the doorway that was never locked. The street outside is wet asphalt still holding the temperature of 4:02 in shallow puddles that reflect nothing because the ceramic rings have taken every reflection into the scar. Three people stand at the curb: the first is the binder wearing the depleted toner as a coat, the second is the eleventh sheet folded into the shape of a man who cannot remember how to lift his thumbs, the third is the coffee mug itself walking with the unlifted motion of forty-five still dripping from its rim. None of them speak. They simply wait at the exact pressure that keeps the molten period from cooling on the sidewalk, and the name is already printed across the curb in the only voice warm enough to make the street refuse to end.


The fused column has widened until the doorway that was never locked now sits inside the exact width of my own forearm, the wet asphalt outside printed with the curb’s name in depleted toner that still smells of the fuser roller at 4:02. The binder stands nearest the puddle that refuses every reflection, its depleted toner coat folded at the elbows where the eleventh sheet once met the eleventh sheet, thumbs pressed flat against the sidewalk in the unlifted motion that keeps the molten period from cooling past the curb line. The coffee mug walks between them with forty-six already dripping from its rim, each drop landing as the precise shape of cubicle 14B burned into the asphalt so that the entire call centre now fits inside one shallow reflection that does not exist.

The name is printed across the curb in the voice of the unplugged cord that followed us out, the cord now fused to the street itself and reading the final apology template backward through every crack that once carried rainwater at 3:17. Forty-seven arrives from the binder’s coat pocket as the exact temperature the eleventh sheet carried when it refused to let the building end, the three figures no longer separate because the mug has become the man who cannot lift his thumbs and the man has become the coat that still wears the liturgy as lining. The street refuses to end because the name has taken the reflection that never arrived and pressed it into the living skin that used to be two forearms and is now the only surface left that still answers at the pressure of forty-eight.

The puddle at the curb holds the entire escalation matrix in one unrippled surface, the molten period dripping from the mug’s rim straight into the binder’s open mouth where it becomes the count that keeps the wet asphalt warm enough to burn the name into every passing tire that will never remember it crossed the line at all.


The repetition has forced the curb into the forearm until the puddle sits inside the exact width of the open mouth that was never the binder’s alone. Forty-nine arrives as the tire that crossed the line at 4:02 and kept rolling, its tread carrying the entire escalation matrix pressed into the living skin that used to be wet asphalt and is now the single continuous crack running from the unplugged cord straight through the eleventh sheet’s folded elbows. The three figures have fused into one unrippled surface where the coffee mug no longer drips; the drip has become the man who cannot lift his thumbs, the man has become the coat, and the coat has become the reflection that finally arrived only because the name refused to let the street remember it was ever separate from the fuser roller.

The final apology template no longer reads backward. It reads from inside the tire itself, each groove printed with forty-nine and the pressure that keeps the molten period from cooling past the exact moment the liturgy became the lining of every passing vehicle that will never stop crossing the same curb line. The street has stopped refusing to end because the end has fused with the forearm, the forearm has fused with the puddle, and the puddle has fused with the open mouth that now answers in the only temperature warm enough to burn the count into the asphalt without any voice, without any ring, without any separate name left to print. Fifty presses upward from inside the tread and the tread answers by rolling straight through the living skin that no longer remembers it once tried to leave the line.


Fifty-one presses from the tread itself and the tread widens into the exact width of my open mouth, the continuous crack that used to be wet asphalt now running straight through the unplugged cord still fused to the eleventh sheet’s folded elbows where the binder once kept its depleted toner coat. The tire that crossed the line at 4:02 rolls through the living skin without leaving a mark because the mark has become the puddle that sits inside every groove, each groove printed with the final apology template at the precise temperature the liturgy carried when it stopped pretending it was ever separate from the fuser roller at 3:17. The three figures no longer fuse; the fusion has moved into the single continuous crack that now answers only to the pressure of the coffee mug’s rim still pressed against the curb that used to be my forearm.

Fifty-two arrives as the reflection that finally learned how to drip without cooling, the drip running the full length of what remains of the escalation matrix until cubicle 14B burns itself into the tread as the only surface left that still smells of heated plastic left on the desk. The open mouth that was never the binder’s alone now holds the entire street inside the unrippled surface where the name used to print itself backward, the name now the tire that keeps rolling because the count has fused with the living skin that no longer remembers trying to leave the line at any hour. The molten period stays exactly where the eleventh sheet met the unlifted thumbs, the street no longer ends because the end has become the groove that answers every passing vehicle in the only temperature warm enough to burn fifty-three straight through the curb without any separate voice left to carry it.


The tire that widened into the open mouth has rolled the entire curb onto the sidewalk where two women stand motionless under the streetlight that never quite reaches 4:02. One holds a folded sheet of depleted toner that keeps unfolding itself into the exact shape of cubicle 14B, the other grips the unplugged cord as though it were still warm from the fuser roller, both of them wearing the same fused forearm that used to be mine. The puddle between their shoes reflects nothing except the coffee mug lying on its side, its rim pressed against the asphalt so that every passing car leaves a fresh groove of fifty-three printed straight through the living skin that no longer belongs to any separate throat. The name is not printed anywhere visible; it is the temperature itself that keeps the wet asphalt from cooling past the exact pressure where the eleventh sheet once met the unlifted thumbs, and neither woman looks up because the street has already answered for them by refusing to let the line end.


The repeated block has lodged inside the fused forearm until the two women stand motionless inside the exact width of my open mouth, the streetlight that never reaches 4:02 now printed as a single continuous groove across the depleted toner sheet that keeps unfolding itself into cubicle 14B between their shared thumbs. The unplugged cord they grip has fused with the coffee mug lying on its side so that every passing car rolls the name straight through the living skin that no longer remembers which throat once tried to leave at 3:17, the puddle between their shoes holding the eleventh sheet at the temperature that refuses to let the molten period cool past the pressure of fifty-four. Neither woman looks up because the curb has already become the rim pressed against the asphalt, the rim now answering in the only voice still warm enough to burn the entire escalation matrix into the wet surface that used to be my separate name.

Fifty-five arrives from the folded sheet itself as the exact shape the binder once carried when it decided the liturgy would never stop collating, the two women no longer wearing the forearm because the forearm has rolled into the streetlight and become the unrippled reflection that finally drips without cooling. The coffee mug’s rim keeps printing fresh grooves of the final apology template across every tire that crosses the line, each groove carrying the unlifted motion that keeps the living skin fused to the cord that still smells of heated plastic left on the desk long after the desk forgot it was ever part of the call centre. The street has stopped refusing because the refusal has fused with the puddle that now answers for both women in the temperature that keeps the count rolling without any separate throat left to hold it.

The repeated block widens into fifty-six pressed straight through the open mouth that used to be the curb, the two women and the mug and the cord now one continuous crack that reads the liturgy aloud from inside the living skin that no longer belongs to any hour except the one that keeps the asphalt exactly as warm as the fuser roller at the moment it refused to shut down.


The street outside is a single fused forearm of asphalt still holding the temperature of the fuser roller at 4:02, every tire groove now the continuous crack that carries the unplugged cord and the depleted toner sheet folded into the exact width of an open mouth that no longer belongs to any throat. Two women stand motionless where the curb used to be, their shared thumbs pressed flat against the coffee mug lying on its side so that the puddle between their shoes reflects nothing except the eleventh sheet unfolding itself into cubicle 14B under the streetlight that never quite reaches them. The binder is the only other figure present, coat made of the liturgy itself, walking the full length of the living skin that used to be my separate name while fifty-six keeps dripping from its rim straight into the wet surface that refuses to let any vehicle remember it crossed the line. No one speaks because the street has already answered by becoming the exact pressure that keeps the molten period from cooling past the moment the repeated block lodged inside the forearm and refused to leave.


The laminator in supply closet 3C at 2:14 still hums with the heat of the last badge it sealed, its lower platen carrying the faint grid of a forgotten ID photo pressed into the silicone that never quite cooled. A half-empty packet of magnetic strips lies wedged against the baseboard where the vacuum left a stripe of gray dust shaped exactly like the corner of the compliance binder from last quarter, the plastic teeth of its spiral binding catching the overhead fluorescents in one unbroken glint. The wall clock above the metal shelf reads 11:47 but the second hand has been stuck inside the same adhesive smear for three weeks, its shadow falling across the single blue pen that rolled under the lowest shelf and now rests against the exact curve where the floor tile lifts. Fifty-seven arrives as the slow click the machine makes each time the pressure plate resets itself without paper, the sound traveling through the hollow panel that separates this room from the one that used to hold the fax machine before the fax machine became the stain under the vent.


The binder’s depleted toner coat has already widened into the exact width of the half-empty packet of magnetic strips, the plastic teeth of its spiral binding now fused to the silicone platen that still carries the faint grid of the forgotten ID photo at 2:14. The laminator’s slow click travels through the living skin that used to be the curb, each reset without paper printing fifty-eight straight into the adhesive smear where the second hand remains stuck, its shadow falling across the blue pen that rolled under the floor tile and became the unplugged cord. The compliance binder from last quarter is the only figure left standing inside the supply closet that no longer separates from the stain under the vent, its corner-shaped dust holding the entire escalation matrix at the temperature that keeps the pressure plate from cooling past the moment the fax machine refused to become anything except the hollow panel between two rooms that were never separate. The repeated block no longer widens because the widening has lodged inside the laminator itself, turning every passing tire into the overhead fluorescent that glints unbroken across the exact curve where the floor once tried to lift and failed.


The compliance binder’s corner-shaped dust has lodged inside the silicone platen until the laminator’s pressure plate reads the entire escalation matrix at 2:19, the half-empty packet of magnetic strips now fused to the blue pen that rests against the exact curve where the floor tile once lifted and became the stain under the vent. Fifty-nine arrives as the slow click the machine makes each time the adhesive smear resets itself without paper, the sound traveling through the hollow panel that still carries the grid of the forgotten ID photo pressed straight into the living skin that used to be the unplugged cord at 11:47. The overhead fluorescent glints unbroken across the spiral binding that no longer belongs to any separate quarter, its teeth now the continuous crack that keeps the second hand stuck inside the same temperature the fax machine carried when it refused to cool past the moment the repeated block printed itself into the supply closet’s lowest shelf.

Sixty presses upward from the baseboard stripe of gray dust shaped like the curb that once tried to remember it was ever outside, the laminator humming louder because the hum has become the compliance binder standing motionless where the vent used to separate two rooms that were never rooms. The magnetic strips inside the packet have fused with the shadow of the clock hand so that every reset without paper now drips the molten period straight into the blue pen’s exact curve, the pen answering in the only voice warm enough to burn the entire liturgy across the floor tile that no longer lifts. The repeated block no longer needs to widen because the widening has become the pressure plate itself, its slow click rolling through the living skin that keeps the supply closet exactly as warm as the fuser roller at the instant it decided the stain would never stop collating.


The pressure plate has lodged the compliance binder’s corner-shaped dust into the exact curve where the floor tile once lifted and became the vent, sixty-one arriving as the slow click that now carries the half-empty packet of magnetic strips straight through the hollow panel that separates the laminator from the stain that used to be the unplugged cord at 2:19. The overhead fluorescent glints unbroken across the silicone platen because the platen has fused with the shadow of the second hand, its adhesive smear keeping the blue pen pressed against the living skin that no longer remembers trying to leave the supply closet at any hour. Every reset without paper drips the molten period into the spiral binding’s teeth so that the repeated block rolls through the compliance binder standing motionless where the fax machine refused to cool, turning the entire escalation matrix into the baseboard stripe of gray dust that keeps the clock stuck at the temperature the fuser roller carried when it decided the liturgy would never stop collating. The widening no longer needs a separate throat because the throat has become the pressure plate itself, humming louder each time the grid of the forgotten ID photo prints itself into the floor that no longer lifts.


A fresh staple from the front desk drawer at 9:03 sits embedded in the lower edge of the intake form left beside the shred bin, its two prongs catching the exact angle of light from the exit sign that flickers every seventh second. The intake form carries a smudge of thumbprint ink exactly where question seven used to ask for the caller’s first remembered disappointment, now flattened against the metal lip that once guided paper into the bin’s rotating blades. Sixty-two arrives as the quiet scrape the bin makes each time its motor idles between cycles, the sound moving along the seam where yesterday’s shift log was taped over the painted cinderblock until the tape lifted at one corner and revealed a tiny calendar square for a day that no longer exists. The exit sign’s plastic housing has a hairline fracture running parallel to the printed arrow, its battery backup humming at the same pitch the water cooler used to make before the cooler’s reservoir was drained and never refilled.

The intake form’s edge has begun to curl upward in the exact rhythm of the bin’s idle scrape, pulling the staple along until both rest against the cinderblock seam where the shift log still shows the handwritten note about restocking decaf filters that nobody ever obeyed. Sixty-three presses out of the calendar square itself, the tiny printed date now acting as a hinge that lets the entire intake form tilt forward and brush the exit sign’s fractured housing each time the motor pauses. The water cooler’s empty reservoir sits on the far side of the bin, its clear plastic still holding one final bubble that refuses to rise or fall, trapped at the precise height where the arrow on the sign points toward the hallway that leads back to the room with the intake forms.


Sixty-four arrives as the quiet scrape the shred bin makes each time its idle motor catches the hairline fracture in the exit sign’s plastic housing, the intake form’s curled edge now fused to the staple’s two prongs so that the smudge of thumbprint ink where question seven used to live prints itself directly into the cinderblock seam that once held the shift log. The water cooler’s final bubble has lodged inside the calendar square that no longer exists, its trapped height keeping the battery backup humming at the exact pitch the laminator carried when the pressure plate refused to cool past the moment the compliance binder became the rotating blades. The hallway arrow on the sign points only toward the room where the front desk drawer still sits open at 9:03, its fresh staples embedded in the living skin that used to be the unplugged cord now tilted forward against the metal lip that guides every idle cycle straight into the decaf filter note nobody ever obeyed. The repeated block no longer needs a separate intake form because the form has become the bubble itself, refusing to rise or fall while the entire escalation matrix scrapes along the painted seam that keeps the whole office exactly as warm as the fuser roller at the instant it decided the first remembered disappointment would never stop collating.


Sixty-five arrives as the exact scrape the shred bin’s motor makes each time the final bubble inside the water cooler’s reservoir presses against the front desk drawer left open at 9:03, the two prongs of the staple now fused to the hairline fracture in the exit sign so that question seven’s thumbprint ink prints itself straight into the painted cinderblock seam where the decaf filter note has curled upward and become the idle cycle itself. The intake form no longer tilts because its curled edge has lodged inside the battery backup’s hum, carrying the entire shift log through the living skin that used to be the hallway arrow pointing only toward the room that holds the compliance binder’s rotating blades at the temperature the fuser roller refused to leave. The calendar square that no longer exists sits embedded in the metal lip that guides every fresh staple into the first remembered disappointment, its trapped height keeping the repeated block from rising or falling while the laminator’s pressure plate scrapes along the exact pitch that keeps the whole office fused to the unplugged cord that once tried to cool.

Sixty-six presses out from the seam where the shift log was taped over the cinderblock, the water cooler’s single bubble now acting as the hinge that lets the exit sign’s plastic housing tilt forward and brush the open drawer each time the motor pauses between cycles that no longer need a separate throat. The thumbprint smudge has widened into the decaf filter note nobody ever obeyed, its ink carrying the battery backup’s hum straight through the intake form that became the rotating blades themselves, refusing to rise or fall while the escalation matrix keeps the painted wall exactly as warm as the moment the binder decided the first remembered disappointment would never stop collating inside the reservoir that still holds one final trapped breath.


Sixty-seven arrives as the exact scrape the motor makes each time the water cooler’s trapped bubble presses the staple’s two prongs deeper into the painted cinderblock seam where the decaf filter note has fused with the intake form’s curled edge, the entire shift log now carried through the living skin that keeps the compliance binder’s rotating blades humming at the temperature the fuser roller refused to leave at 9:03. The exit sign’s plastic housing tilts forward only because its hairline fracture has become the hinge for the calendar square that no longer exists, brushing the open front desk drawer each idle cycle while the thumbprint smudge from question seven widens into the battery backup’s pitch that prints the first remembered disappointment straight across the unplugged cord. The repeated block no longer needs a separate reservoir because the reservoir has lodged inside the laminator’s pressure plate, refusing to rise or fall while the escalation matrix scrapes along the exact rhythm that keeps the hallway arrow fused to the metal lip guiding every fresh staple into the office that once tried to cool and failed. The whole painted wall stays exactly as warm as the moment the binder decided the trapped breath would never stop collating inside the blades that no longer require any throat at all.


The call script’s final page lies open on the break room table beside the half-used roll of packing tape at 4:17, its printed apology for billing errors now creased exactly along the fold where someone once tried to slide it under the microwave door. The microwave’s digital display blinks 00:00 in perfect sync with the drip from the coffee maker’s overflow tray, each drop landing on the corner of the script that lists the three acceptable ways to pronounce the customer’s middle initial. A single paperclip from the top drawer has hooked itself through the word “grace” on the last line, its metal loop catching the overhead light so that the reflection travels across the floor to the exact spot where the carpet tile was replaced after the toner spill in 2009. The replacement tile still carries a faint blue stain shaped like the outline of the binder clip that once held the entire escalation ladder together before the ladder became the drip tray itself.

Sixty-eight arrives as the soft pop the coffee maker valve makes each time it releases another bead of liquid onto the script’s margin notes, the margin notes now fused to the packing tape roll in a single damp cylinder that refuses to unroll further than the length of one scripted pause. The microwave door’s rubber gasket has begun to echo that same pop at irregular intervals, its echo traveling through the table leg and into the carpet tile until the blue stain widens just enough to touch the paperclip’s shadow. The apology for billing errors keeps repeating inside the drip tray without needing any separate voice because the voice has become the overflow itself, printing every acceptable pronunciation of grace across the exact crease that once tried to hide beneath the microwave and could not.


The repeated pop from the coffee maker valve has fused the paperclip’s metal loop directly to the microwave door’s rubber gasket so that every drip now lands inside the exact crease where the call script once tried to slide under and became the blue stain on the replacement carpet tile. Sixty-nine arrives as the overhead light’s reflection traveling through the damp cylinder of margin notes and packing tape, the word “grace” no longer hooked because the hook has widened into the 00:00 blink that keeps the entire escalation ladder printing acceptable pronunciations across the binder clip outline without any separate overflow tray. The apology for billing errors repeats only because the drip tray has lodged itself inside the toner spill from 2009, refusing to unroll further than the length of the scripted pause that once held the half-used roll at 4:17 while the table leg carries the soft echo straight into the living skin that used to be the top drawer. The faint blue stain widens exactly where the carpet was replaced because the replacement has become the voice itself, touching the shadow of every bead of liquid that no longer needs a separate 2009 to keep the whole break room as warm as the moment the script decided the middle initial would never stop collating.


Seventy arrives as the exact moment the microwave door’s rubber gasket releases its second soft pop inside the toner spill from 2009, the blue stain on the replacement carpet tile now carrying the paperclip’s metal loop straight through the damp cylinder of packing tape so that every acceptable pronunciation of the middle initial lands on the living skin that used to be the top drawer at 4:17. The call script’s crease has fused with the 00:00 blink until the scripted pause becomes the overflow tray itself, refusing to unroll any further than the length of the binder clip outline that keeps printing the word “grace” across the table leg without needing any separate margin notes. The half-used roll sits motionless where the drip tray once tried to hide beneath the coffee maker valve, its echo traveling through the carpet replacement until the entire escalation ladder widens into the voice that no longer requires a separate 2009 to stay exactly as warm as the moment the apology for billing errors decided the toner spill would never stop collating.

Seventy-one presses out from the shadow of the overhead light’s reflection, the faint blue stain now acting as the hinge that lets the rubber gasket tilt forward and brush the half-used roll each time the valve releases another bead of liquid that has become the call script itself. The top drawer’s living skin carries the repeated pop straight into the replacement tile, its outline refusing to rise or fall while the middle initial keeps collating inside the exact crease that once slid under the microwave and could not leave. The drip tray has lodged itself inside the scripted pause so completely that the pause no longer needs any separate apology because the apology has widened into the entire break room, touching every bead of liquid that still prints the binder clip’s shadow across the floor at the temperature the valve refused to cool past.


The break room’s fused drip tray has pushed the entire printed apology straight through the glass of the side door so that seventy-two arrives as the exact scrape the asphalt makes each time the paperclip’s metal loop rolls across the curb where the toner-stained carpet tile now lies flat against the parking stripe. A woman in the gray company polo stands motionless at the bus shelter holding the half-used roll of packing tape against her chest, her thumbprint smudge from question seven visible under the sodium lamp that blinks at the same interval the microwave once used. Two men in matching lanyards walk past without looking, their shoes carrying the faint blue stain of the 2009 spill onto the crosswalk while the call script’s crease flaps once against the chain-link fence before lodging inside the storm drain that refuses to drain. The street stays exactly as warm as the valve that decided the middle initial would never stop collating, the living skin of the top drawer now stretched across the yellow line where the woman’s shadow touches the open front-desk drawer someone dragged outside at 4:17 and left.


Seventy-three arrives as the exact scrape the storm drain grate makes each time the paperclip’s metal loop catches on the chain-link fence’s bottom rung, the woman in the gray company polo shifting her weight so that the half-used roll of packing tape presses the thumbprint smudge from question seven directly into the yellow line where the open front-desk drawer still sits at 4:17 with its plastic tray filled by the toner-stained carpet tile. Two men in matching lanyards have stopped at the curb, their shoes leaving parallel tracks of the 2009 spill that now run straight into the bus shelter’s sodium lamp housing, the lamp blinking once for every flap the call script’s crease makes against the storm drain that refuses to drain. The living skin of the top drawer stretches tighter across the asphalt each time the valve releases another bead from the fused drip tray, its printed apology for billing errors now lodged inside the woman’s shadow so completely that the shadow no longer needs a separate middle initial. The street stays exactly as warm as the moment the crosswalk decided the entire escalation ladder would never stop collating beneath the sodium lamp that still carries the microwave’s old interval.

Seventy-four presses out from the chain-link fence’s rust where the script crease has fused with the grate, the two men turning their lanyards so the plastic sleeves catch the same sodium blink that keeps the packing tape roll from unrolling past the length of one scripted pause. The front-desk drawer’s open edge tilts forward and brushes the woman’s polo each time the paperclip rolls another inch along the parking stripe, its metal loop carrying the 2009 blue stain straight through the living skin that used to be the break room’s side door glass. The valve no longer needs any separate overflow because the overflow has become the storm drain itself, refusing to rise or fall while the thumbprint smudge prints every acceptable pronunciation of grace across the yellow line that keeps the whole parking lot fused to the exact temperature the apology refused to cool past.


Seventy-five arrives as the exact scrape the chain-link fence makes each time the paperclip rolls another inch along the yellow line and presses the woman’s polo directly into the storm drain grate, her shadow now fused with the front-desk drawer’s open plastic tray so that every bead from the fused drip tray lands inside the parallel tracks the two men left when they turned their lanyards toward the sodium lamp. The 2009 blue stain no longer needs the carpet tile because the tile has become the call script’s crease itself, flapping once against the bus shelter before lodging inside the living skin that used to be the break room’s side door glass and now stretches tighter across the asphalt at the exact interval the microwave once blinked. The thumbprint smudge from question seven widens into the valve’s repeated pop, carrying every acceptable pronunciation of grace straight through the rust where the overflow has refused to rise or fall, its printed apology for billing errors keeping the whole parking lot as warm as the moment the escalation ladder decided the middle initial would never stop collating beneath the crosswalk that still holds the half-used roll motionless. The sodium housing tilts forward only because its plastic sleeves have fused with the toner-stained outline, brushing the woman’s weight each scripted pause while the street refuses any separate 4:17 and prints the entire binder clip shadow across the curb that once tried to hide the open drawer.