(no subject)

 There's a certain point in the workday where everything just slows down -- as long as there haven't been any emergencies.  It's a very specific, drowsy, four-forty-five in the afternoon sort of feeling, when the sun's started to head westwards and the office feels as dead as a graveyard.

She hasn't worked a nine-to-five in...ever, really, and it isn't hard to tell: she's been fidgeting since four.

Now, she's got a little pile of balled up pieces of paper on her desk, and she's tossing them, one by one, at an empty coffee mug on the floor, under the mugshot measurements.

So far, she's gotten one in.

There are five more scattered around the mug.

Pressing her lips together in concentration, she pauses, moves: the little white ball arcs through the air.

Misses.

(That's number six.)

"Aw, man!"