grey

The lines on the article on her desk are beginning to dance off the page in time to the incessant tap-tap typing beyond her work space. She shakes her head and tries to resume reading, but a voice breaks her concentration. "You know it's a bad night when it takes three shots of tequila before you can even pretend she's worth looking at." She swivels in her chair, searching for the source of the disturbance. The walls of her cell mock her. The furnishings - drab, neutral - are adept at hiding the grime that disputes the existence of the regular cleaning service. Her eyes narrow on the owl in the wildlife print that adorns the wall. Is he the one sharing this uninspired tale of inebriation? The foul de-oxygenized air must be suffocating the portion of her brain dedicated to reality. The voice continued: "You know, fat girls are like mopeds: fun to ride, but ..." She sighs. It's just Jason, the pompous foghorn doing time in office 347. The wax paper walls are no match for his twanged drawl.

p.s. i cheated and did not post my poetry assignment - it was pretty horrible - so we'll pretend it didn't exist.