Angela cut herself on the razor sharp edge of a box and inspected the tip of her finger. The cardboard had torn a miniaturized version of the Grand Canyon through her fingerprint and it took a few seconds for the blood to well up.
She promptly stuck the finger in her mouth before a single drop splattered on any of the objects arranged in front of her.
Dressed in a herringbone-patterned short skirt, a sheer beige blouse over a black camisole, and black satin two-inch heels, she looked out of place in the basement. With her fiery red hair done up in a bun, she looked like she should be rubbing elbows with the elite at the cocktail party in the rooms above her rather than standing in the middle of the impromptu mail room, sucking on her finger.
Wes was twenty years her senior, but the deep wrinkly crags on his face made him look more like eighty years older, shook his head. “I keep telling you Ang, you gotta wear gloves when handling these recycled boxes. Never had this problem back in my day. Cardboard made from trees, as God intended, is better.”
He wrinkled his nose at her in disgust. “And I wouldn’t be sticking no finger in my mouth after touching these things. Lord knows if they washed all that poop paper before recycling them into boxes.”
He emphasized the word “recycling” with air quotes before grabbing another package off the mail cart and slicing it open with a box cutter. Continue reading