Somebody pooped on my workplace. Literally, he or she pooped on the SIDE of the building, two feet from the door that few people other than myself ever use.
Since Monday I have seen this poop twice each lunch hour, and it has done nothing for my appetite. I'm increasingly fascinated by its longevity: nobody seems to have noticed, and it is impervious to the weather, looking exactly the same now as it did three days ago.
This is a strange secret that I'm keeping, especially because the poop is right underneath my manager's window. I see her several times a day and I keep wanting to tell her about it, but I know she wouldn't appreciate the news. She'd either have to clean it up herself or just sit there by her window, thinking about it, the way I do.
Vanilla has never seen the poop but I keep her appraised. I pretend that it's Allison Goldfrapp's poop. I pretend that she'd call it her "blasted barmy poozy." This makes the situation more bearable.
Every night I wonder if it will go away, and every day I return to find it still there. There's nothing I can comfortably do about it. I can only see which one of us gives up first.