Dalton sat at his desk with sunglasses perched on his nose and a wide brimmed hat pulled low. The florescent lights hurt. The sound of the copy machine hurt. The slight rumble of the ground of his third floor office hurt. It was Thursday morning and he was full of regret.
“Hey, Dalt,” said Ari, her head popping up over their shared cubical wall, “quick question.”
“Quiet question, please,” Dalton muttered as he turned his face away from his still booting up computer and looked up at Ari. Her face was of course centered in front of the brightest, hottest overhead light in the entire building (or so Dalton thought).
“Are you this guy?” she asked holding her cell-phone as close as she could manage to Dalton’s face.
He made sense of what he was seeing five seconds later, just before the Vine looped once more. Six seconds of one very loud, very inebriated, twenty something trying to reclaim some former youthful abandon by spinning around a light pole and singing a Katy Perry hit before losing his grip and flying into a mailbox.
Dalton wondered why his elbow hurt. Now he knew.
“Oh golly,” Dalton said as he took the phone from Ari’s hand and continued to the looping video. “Remember when we could do dumb things without being recorded?”
“Dude, Chantelle is live streaming our conversation right now,” Ari said, taking her phone back.
“Chantelle! Come on. Who even watches a live stream from an office at 8 in the morning?” Dalton asked, looking directly into the tiny aperture of a phone’s camera.
“Content is king, buck-o,” Chantelle answered from behind her screen.
Dalton shrugged, “fair enough. Send me the link would you?”
Thanks for reading!