At work I’m confronted with a corpse. The roses Cam sent me last Monday committed suicide over the weekend and are stinking up my cubicle something fierce. There are withered petals and crispy leaves all over the place. I consider dumping them into the kitchen trash, but the can is only slightly bigger than the one under my desk, unable to accommodate the remains of one hundred roses. Also I’d probably trip and fall on my way, thereby spilling disgusting flower-rot water all over the company carpet and eliciting the ire of Portia, who has already made several ominous passes by my desk like a shark toying with the seal it’s planning to eat for dinner.
So I call for help.
Denny arrives with one of those industrial-size garbage cans on a round dolly with wheels. “Yikes!” he says, grinning.
