About the Call
Professionally improper, line by line
He’s alone, late at the office, when the desk phone chirps—a bright, harmless trill.
“Hello?” he answers, voice steady, professional.
“Oh good,” she purrs, syrup-sweet. “I was hoping you’d pick up. I’ve been… thinking about our project.”
Her tone dips just enough to make the word tremble.
He clears his throat. “Happy to, uh, discuss any details you need.”
“Mmm, details.” A breathy pause. “I just opened the… file.” (A rustle that sounds nothing like paper.) “It’s… thicker than I expected.”
He swivels in his chair, heat creeping up his collar. “We can streamline it—”
“Oh, no,” she interrupts, feigning scandal. “I love how dense it is. Feels substantial in my hand.”
Another innocent rustle; he imagines anything but spreadsheets.
A shaky exhale slips through his teeth. “If you’d like revisions, we can—”
“Revisions?” She gasps. “Darling, I want it exactly as is. I’ve run my fingers down every… column.”
His pulse hammers. “Right. Well. Columns can be useful.”
“Useful indeed. Oh! And I noticed the margins are… so narrow.”
She sighs, a soft croon that curls around his ribs. “I love a snug margin—keeps everything together until it’s ready to burst.”
A pen clatters from his grasp. “We—should probably review this in person.”
“Soon,” she promises. “But first, I have to tell you…”
Her voice slips to a hush, conspiratorial—like confession behind velvet curtains. “I accidentally spilled something on the draft.”
His breath hitches. “Spilled?”
“A splash, really. It spread so fast.” She draws out each word, lazy and lethal. “Now the paper’s practically translucent. I can see everything beneath.”
Silence blooms—thick, charged, impossible.
She inhales, tremulous, as though mesmerized by her own mischief. Then, the softest moan of delight:
“Gods, it’s soaked.”
Click.
— K