Read by Katy Darby
Here’s what happens. It’s late and Peterson and I are the only two left on our floor. I have a report, they want a hard copy of it upstairs, and I need a staple to hold it all together. I do not have a stapler. There is one by Peterson so I go over and am about to take hold of it when he scowls at me, like it was his. Like he’d bought it or something. I’m a thorough woman so I ask him “What?” He’s glaring now so I say “Look, I just need one staple: is that OK?” and he scowls again, but in a sort of acquiescing way.