Thanks. Sure. No problem. A word was not mild, passive, or obsequious, not properly, until Jules's mouth had uttered it, and Ona's words dulled as they struck him, beading off him like butter hitting a hot pan. His gut almost spilled over his belt, but not quite, like a drink held there at the lip of the overfilled glass by water tension alone, and really, isn't that the reason the color of his shirt doesn't matter? It will look lumpy and awkward on him no matter what color it's dyed in, and from what fabric it's cut. So too did his eyes sag, still stricken with the afterglow of his gadget screens. Far from obese, but compared to Ona he was simply a whale, beached and bloated. But because he didn't stop between floors and prowl the offices, speaking to him and her, soaking up their gossip, making plans for lunch, drinks, double dates, and every other thing. Through the art of the beeline alone, the fat man moved more swiftly through the building than his partner could ever dream.

Yet today he looked different. The lethargy which he swallowed with his coffee had come up again somehow. Today he did not shove himself nose-first into his work, fearful first of Ona's wrath and then of their manager's; instead he leafed through his stack when Ona handed it to him. He looked over his shoulder, and opened a drawer or two in his desk, twice each. He leaned out of his cubicle, trying to peek into hers; but he tried not to give himself away in the process, so he traveled too short a distance to spy through the "doorway," and saw nothing.

"[color=8d97bf]Uh, hey,[/color]" Jules said. "[color=8d97bf]There should be an 'E. Taylor' in your stack. You think you could give him to me, please?[/color]" Then, ashamed for having asked, his body pushed in on itself, making him tiny, a small lump of sausage-meat stuffed into a still-smaller casing. His knees pressed together, and as he stared into the knots and burls of the patterned Styroleum desk-surface, he cradled his elbows in his lap.