Jane and Bob share a five-foot high cubicle wall, swathed in a gray fabric of unknown origin. Likely it is the by-product of some Chinese manufacturing plant. The wall is hollow and does not hold thumbtacks well.
"Good Morning, Jane," Bob says as he takes a seat at his desk and powers up his computer.
"Good morning, Bob." Jane smiles at the crown of Bob's balding head.
"Enjoy your weekend?" He asks as his fingers hit his keyboard with sharp taps.
"Yes, thanks. You?" she yawns and twirls a strand of her long brown hair around her forefinger.
"T-ball season at the Frank house," Bob chuckles. "Bob Jr. hit one out of the park."
Jane nods. Bob cannot see her acknowledgment but he seems satisfied and settles into faster and more furious typing.
She runs her finger across the telephone. Straightens the piles of papers in her inbox. Bob's phone rings. His voice is muffled and Jane presses her ear to the wall that separates them. His responses are short. Gruff. He slams the phone down and Jane jumps back.
...
Quitting time approaches.
"Have a good night, Jane," Bob says as he rustles through his things and stands, pushing his chair under his desk.
"Yes, you too, Bob." Jane lifts her arm and waves to him over the top of the wall.
Hours later Jane is wandering the streets of the city. Flowers lie listless in oversize pots. Children dart by with dripping ice cream cones in hand. Their parents, haggard and limp, ten paces behind. A tattered bench catches Jane's eye and she sits.
"Well, hello Jane," Bob says, his eyes bloodshot, his gait wobbly.
"Good evening, Bob," she catches her breath and holds it as the aroma of cigarette and beer wafts over her.
"Mind if I join you, Jane?" He asks.
She nods, scoots over, and presses her knees close together making room for Bob.
"You're beautiful, Jane," Bob says his words slurred and barely intelligible.
"Thank you, Bob." She folds her arms across her breasts.
Bob moves closer and places his hand on her slender thigh. He caresses her exposed knee.
"Beautiful, Jane," he murmurs. His eyes sparkle.
Jane straightens her back. She can barely breathe.
Bob leans closer to Jane and cups his hands around her face; his yeasty breath envelops her. Her stomach tightens into a tight knot and her heart beats furiously as Bob presses his lips to hers. Jane lets out a small cry and wrestles free of his grasp.
Bob's body slumps forward, his chin resting on his chest as his hands drop to his sides. Jane watches his chest heave up and down, then retreats, slipping away down a side street.
...
"Good Morning, Jane," Bob says as he takes a seat at his desk and powers up his computer.
