Lunch at Great Heights

[Josh McGrath]

She sat down on a pillow ripped from an old office chair she had found in vacant room just a week ago.  With one hand she grasped too tightly her tuna sandwich and with the other smoothed out her sensible business suit underneath her bottom so as to keep it wrinkle-free.  How could she have ended up here on top floor of a massive sky scraper, desperate to seek refuge from her vacuous co-workers?  Her tuna dripped on her pointedly conservative skirt and she grew pale and broke into a cold sweat, but it quickly turned to anger.  Why would my emotions become so consumed by a meaningless dribble on my impeccable outfit, what or who had warped my mind so badly that I found this accident a small tragedy.  She tossed the sandwich aside with force, got up and went down the tower into her office, past all the meetings, synergy and empty people in empty shells of herringbone and pinstripes with elegant ties, down to the elevator, hitting the bottom button with excessive force, she was to disappear from that office never to be seen or heard from again. 

[Other]

I think I saw her on the beach that same day, laughing.  Her outfit was a mess.