Midnight at the Office of Stevens and Albright
Locking it behind him, Ed caught his gaunt reflection in the glass door of the now darkened office. The loose-fleshed neck hunching out of the baggy collar of his khaki jumpsuit conjured childhood images of cartoon vultures with British accents. What was that movie?
He continued to ponder this while watching his feet shuffle over the tiled hallway to the next office. For the thousandth time his eyes were drawn to the thin splash of tar on the toe of his left boot, marring his frame of vision while he mopped.
The familiar jangle of keys accompanied his entrance into Mr. Albright’s office. Flipping the light switch revealed a fine bottle of Bordeaux perched precariously on the mahogany desk. A wine glass kissed with crimson stood next to it, the shattered remains of another littering the pool of its contents on the floor. A puffy man with thinning hair lay supine behind the desk, the trousers of his wool suit bunched at his ankles.
Ed dumped the trash bin and wiped down the desk. Tsk tsk, Mr. Albright. Should have used a coaster. Broken glass disposed of and wine mopped up, Ed turned off the light and locked the door behind him, admiring the shiny black loafers peeking out from his pant legs. Size 10 wide. Perfect.
“Jungle Book!” he exclaimed and danced his mop across the tile. Summoning his best British accent, his gravelly baritone echoed softly down the hallway, “That’s what friends are foooor!”