The Binder and the Clip
Attached.
He was always attached.
They spent the days together, sitting in the sun.
Out the window, birds glided on the city’s updrafts.
Behind them, keystrokes fell into place.
The cup of coffee sat nearby, unsure of itself, its contents spilled and drying into a sticky ring on the wooden desk.
The neglected coaster sighed.
For years, the binder had yearned to get free.
But he was always there.
If not on top of her, he was by her side.
He was relentless.
His steel arms enclosed her, leaving rusty marks.
She knew she’d never be the same in that place where he’d once clamped on and held for what seemed like an entire week.
Perhaps it had been that long.
She was numb there now.
One day, she said to herself, he’ll get lost in the shuffle, and I’ll be able to break free.
She looked around her.
The pencil looked despondent, its eraser slowly hardening into a hot pink rock.
The post-it notes fluttered with the rush of the baseboard’s forced air.
