Each time I come to the office, I feel the way I did as a
kid at the Height of the Cold War, when we all expected the bomb to drop and
huddled uselessly under our own desks in the fain hope we might survive, just as
I huddle in my Harry Potter alcove now, in that space that is between floors,
not below, not above, like limbo as I wait for God (or her or somebody else) to
decide my fate.
It is no longer up to me to decide and what awaits me is not
the result of what I do or say, since I no longer do or say thing that might light
the fuse. It is up to her, if not a mood, then an inclination, waking up to the
chatter of an irate hamster from which she concludes I am to blame, as if a
Russian Oligarch with her finger on the button, so nervous she might push it by
accident and blow up my world, and maybe hers, and no matter how I hide my
head, I know it is not possible to survive it.
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