For feta or worse

The intercom light blinked and I flicked it on. “Mr Sharp is here to see you.”

I heard a sharp voice behind her own.

There was a moment of hesitation. “He says.. he says it’s urgent.”

I pressed the intercom button and looked around, pulling my thumb and forefingers across each of my eyebrows, before coming down to my tear ducts, massaging a little. Were they more prominent than before? I sighed, cleared my desk of the sandwich crumbs into the palm of my hand, pouring most of them into the bin with the others landing on the floor. I turned over a blank page in my notebook and moved my head back and to the left, reminiscent of the motion Jack Kennedy made in Dallas. At least a pang of heat to my spinal discs was all I was going to suffer.

“Send him in.”