#22 Tongue 
Maybe it was the paper cut that sent him over the edge. Jim was licking an envelope and, not for the first time, wondering why his cheap-assed boss couldn’t spring for the self-adhesive kind. These were old – emblazoned with the company logo and tucked into box after pre-printed box in the storeroom. No correspondence had left that office in fifteen years that didn’t make it’s exit wrapped in one of these envelopes. Even when they were forced to send something Priority, Edgar Kane insisted that they slip the letter, or check, or whatever, into one of his private envelopes, then use the plastic-fronted Priority envelope as an outer covering. Weird, but not too weird, until the sharp edge of one of those ridiculous antique paper pouches cut a slit in Jim’s tongue.
The glue tasted like Jim imagined a fly strip would taste with some sort of sweet flavor sprinkled on the top to attract unwary insects. He sucked on the tip of his tongue and felt how the tacky substance coated the cut. It hurt like a mother, but there seemed to be no blood. Self-sealing paper cuts. As if the day wasn’t weird enough already.
He still had a dozen letters to get out, and the thought of touching another envelope with the injured tip of his tongue made his stomach roll. He searched the office, hoping to turn up one of the small dishes with a sponge he’d seen used at the post office, but there was nothing like that in sight.
He returned to his desk, and stared at the piled correspondence. He couldn’t ignore it, it was all time sensitive material, and he couldn’t tell Kane what the problem was, because the answer would be an icy stare…a long silence…and a return to the job knowing he’d pissed off the boss.
With a sigh, he sat down and lifted the next envelope. He stared at it, teased his injured tongue over his lip…and tried to scream. The tip with the cut adhered to the skin on his lip. He struggled to free it, but it was stuck tight. He stood quickly and ran to the door to the inner office. He didn’t knock, he pressed the door open and stood there, working his jaw, trying to free himself.
Mr. Kane glanced up…and frowned.
Jim fought the urge to scream again – knowing it would come out as a pathetic curgle – and pointed to his tongue. Mr. Kane’s frown deepened.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he said.
Jim groaned and pointed to his tongue again. He held up the unsealed envelope.
“Oh,” Mr. Kane said. He nodded. “Return to your desk. I’ll be right there — I know exactly what you need.”
Grateful, and a little surprised, Jim rushed back to his desk and sat.
A moment later his boss walked out of the inner office. He stepped to the sink by the coffee pot and ran cold water for a moment, then turned back.
“Here. This should do the trick.” He said.
He placed a small clear dish on Jim’s desk. In the dish was a damp yellow sponge.
“And be careful,” Mr. Kane said, turning away. “That glue sticks to everything.”
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
