Mondays

“Good morning Abigail,” said Peter. “You are sitting in my chair.”

“Good morning,” said Abigail. “It’s now our chair, and yes.”

Peter pointed to the nameplate on the desk. “It’s my office,” he said. “It’s my chair.”

“Well, my office caught fire, so now this is our office,” she replied.

Peter said nothing. Abigail typed at the computer in front of her.

“Did you set fire to your office?” he asked.

She kept typing. “No. I mean, technically, yes, but not on purpose.”

“And the reward for that is my chair?”

Our chair,” she corrected, “and yes.”

He blinked. “I’m going to need my chair to do my work this morning.”

“Oh no,” she turned to face him, with a smile as close to innocent as she could muster. “You have a meeting with Chris this morning.”

“I don’t have a meeting with Chris this morning,” he said. He pulled out his phone and checked the calendar. “Okay,” he conceded, “I have a meeting with Chris this morning.” He read the invitation. “You created the meeting?”

The innocent smile failed. “No. I mean, technically, yes, but not on purpose,” she said. “The meeting is about the fire.”

“So you set your office on fire, and for that you get my chair while I sort out your mess?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Please don’t fire me.”

“There’s been enough fire,” he said. “Besides, I would need to sit in my chair to do that.”

Our chair,” she said.

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