And in other news, the body of Office Drudge and Energetic Dancer Pearl was discovered locked in the 47th floor bathroom late Tuesday afternoon.
Reduced to stopping up the sinks for amusement and writing the lyrics to “Me and Bobby McGee” in lipstick on the bathroom mirrors, her prostrate form was found just inside the door.
“That’ll teach her to forget her key card,” a representative from Facilities was overheard muttering.
Coworkers, colleagues, superiors, and free-food hopefuls met this morning over yesterday’s bagels to discuss her many attributes and maximize their coffee breaks in work-appropriate shows of anguish.
“She was a snappy dresser, I’ll give her that much,” intones one member of the shipping department.
“Who uses the 47th floor bathroom anyway?”
“She owed me a lunch,” mutters an associate.
“Speaking of lunch, she ever give you that tired old speech on her stand regarding the word “coworker”?”
“I NEVER ORKED A COW IN MY WHOLE LIFE,” shouts several admins.
Blinded by leftover bagels and unstructured time, the room goes silent.
“Wait a minute,” interjects Little Miss She-Owes-Me-Lunch. “Who dies from being locked in the bathroom?”
“Who said anything about her being dead?”
Confused looks are exchanged.
“She’s not dead?”
“Nah. We just found her stretched out on the floor, singing Janis Joplin songs. Apparently she didn’t know the room locks itself.”
“Poor thing,” says a representative from Accounting. “I heard they found her with lipstick smeared all over her face.”
Blank stares all around.
“You know, to conserve moisture.”
Concurrent comments break the solemnity of the occasion.
“She wasn’t in a desert, ya maroon.”
“Go back to yer desk…”
The room falls silent.
“So where is she now?”
The room erupts in commentary again.
“At her desk, of course.”
“She went back to the 47th floor bathroom for some alone time!”
“She’s with the plumber – he’s come to fix the sink!!”
“Well I’m not covering for her.”
And with that, the memorial group disbands.
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