The meeting ran longer than necessary. It always did when Jenkins decided to open his mouth. I kept my expression neutral, my comments surgical and my attention razor-sharp—outwardly.
But inside? I was counting down the seconds until I could return to my office. My sanctuary. My controlled environment.
The moment I stepped back into the hallway, I exhaled quietly.
Then I opened the door.
And stopped.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. My brain short-circuited so violently I was convinced for a second I had entered the wrong office.
There, dead center on my desk like some annoying, chlorophyll-sodden insult, was a plant.
Hideous.
It sat there, defiant in its utter lack of metabolism. Its leaves were a uniform, waxy green, each vein perfectly etched, each edge unnaturally sharp.
It was a ugly mimicry of life, devoid of the subtle imperfections, the gentle wilting, the dust anticipation that characterized anything organic. It was too green, too perfect, utterly fake.
