They get real coffee up here, from an $8,000 coffee machine. In the reception office downstairs they have a dripolator and a mug of milk. In the mail room we have a jar of instant coffee and a dirty spoon. Aah, the joys of the corporate hierarchy. It’s possibly the only thing that makes me jealous of the upstairs goons.

The third floor is no different. I’m taking my time today, putting mail out slowly. Often I’m quick, so that people don’t look at me, don’t stare at me or try to engage with me. Not that they ever have, since I’m one of the hundreds of invisible people that serve the daily needs of the bourgeoisie but I don’t want to chance it. Today, I don’t want to be back downstairs with Paul. Paul represents banality on an almost artisan level. I’ve never had much tolerance for inane people.

I’m done with the pigeon holes first, now it’s time to make a round of the big guy’s, the important people who get their mail delivered to inboxes on their desks. This part of the third floor houses the marketing department. Here lie the ad campaigners who turn mere pages of words into New York Times Bestsellers. Or so they like to kid themselves.

I get to the fourth cubicle along and I stop. The mail in my hand is addressed to Kimberley Penshurst, and I know what she looks like: short, blonde, slut. The person at the desk is not short, is not blonde and probably isn’t a slut although one can’t tell at first glance. She has her back to me, but I know it isn’t Kimberley. I hover unexpectedly by the cubicle divider, wondering if I should dump the mail and run, point out the intruder or just ask.

Something else must be going on because I’m not normally this indecisive; or this nervous.

The brunette turns and I get my first look at her. She’s about my height, with wavy flowing brown hair that has just the right number of soft molasses highlights in it. Pretty… oh god she’s stunning, and her smile seems to be accompanied by this little wrinkle in her nose. And then I notice her eyes: warm, chocolate sensations that take my breath away and turn me into a stuttering mess.

Who are you and how did you kill me so fast?

“Can I help you?” She asks sweetly.

“Um… uh… Kimberley?” I say, sweat starting to edge its way towards my collar.

“Oh, her last day was yesterday! I’m her replacement.”

Normally someone with this much squeak and excitement in their voice would be driving me crazy. I don’t think that’s what’s going on inside me. I am strangely devoid of homicidal urges.

“Oh,” I croak. “I have her mail…”

“Its fine, I can take mail addressed to her. If it’s personal I’ll forward it on.”

“Um, you can re-address it, and I can pick it up for you,” I offer, having no idea where my voice, let alone my intent, is coming from.

“Thanks,” She smiles and there goes that wrinkle again.

“Oh, uh, should I expect mail for you?” I ask.

No git brain, she’s only started working here. Do you think she might get mail eventually, well do you??

“Sure.” She grins again. “Anything for Ashley Davies, just send it my way. Oh, and you can send me Mick Jagger’s mail too.”

It takes me a few obvious seconds to realize she’s joking. I offer a weak smile and back out of her cubicle, placing the mail in my hand in her inbox. “Sure thing,” I half whisper.

I cannot get out of the office fast enough.

Oh hell.