When she tapped Send on the last cryptic email she would ever write to the two of them, she refrained from rereading. The writing was ugly and its manner uglier. She wouldn’t talk about this with anyone. There was no real reason to stew in its juice. Instead she thought about crying. In the bathroom, head against the stall. Then she thought about something work-related. Then back to crying. She needed a door to slam but it was four o’clock in the middle of the week and she was at work. The doors there didn’t slam, they only slid. She looked across her desk, her eyes stopping on the stapler. She grabbed it, holding it like a heavy-tension hand-grip, stapling nothing, the quick repetition feeling nice, kind of like eating something you don’t have to look at - say popcorn. The staples ran out. It was her intention. She walked to the closet with the office supplies and got a new box. Back at her desk, she loaded the stapler and set it down. She looked at it for a long time and then looked away. Their reply popped up all black and bold. Her stomach went hollow, her eyes cast downward like a kid not so ready for their punishment. She felt the regret get all up near her venom. Click.