A stack of envelopes on his left, an empty tub on his right. Left hand goes to the stack. With his thumb he flips the opened side to his right hand. Like a squirming earthworm his index finger finds the opening and with the thumb pries open the package, pinching its contents out.
As he stacks their folded innards neatly he tosses the envelopes to a bin at his feet, paper chaff showing on his dark slacks like snow on the wet pavement outside his window. His fingers turn blue from ink and dirt.
10:30. Break time. 15 minutes.
Watching the blind, blinding snow through the window. Coffee is free and awful. It scalds his throat and sits testily in his empty stomach. Fox Business News drones in concert with The Price Is Right on the opposite wall, both turned low.
Tom can’t help but feel like he’s underwater.
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