I hover over send. This is nothing. This is air. This is also me handing him a match and telling him not to light anything on fire.
I hit send.
The reply lands thirty seconds later like he’s been sitting there waiting with a defibrillator.
Subject:Re: Copy room
Body:
Received.
Rule: No touching unless asked.
Sub-rule (per HR’s favorite problem):
No jazz hands.
Addendum: May request permission to make you laugh in non-hip-related contexts.
Optional Addendum: Can we agree that two negatives make a positive?
– L
A smile sneaks onto my mouth, uninvited, then pretends it’s always lived there. I type back.
Subject:Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Addendum approved.
Violation results in stapler-related consequences.
And no, don’t test the double-negative theory—you’d end up squared and I’d still be negative.
– T
Before I can close the tab, his typing dot pops up again—like he’s texting inside of email, which is illegal but also, apparently, on brand.
Subject:Re: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Noted. I respect the stapler.
Also… you okay? (You don’t have to answer.)
P.S. For the record, you had me at acute angle of that slap.
– L
The corner of my lip betrays me, curving up. Acute angle. God help me.
Subject:Re: Re: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Working on it.
