Margie knew something was wrong the minute she walked into her office two weeks ago. There was a strange brightness that morning. Everything gleamed: the sun danced off of passing taxi windows, the puddles from a nighttime shower sparkled in a painful manner, even the white coat of her precious feline Snowball caused her to wince as she laid out his morning breakfast (complete with his preferred twig of parsley and fresh shrimp curled around the crest of the molded tuna. Cats can be so finicky.)

The phone was especially shiny that afternoon. The cleaning crew had done a floor to ceiling waxing after the bi-annual office sweep for bugging devices. Per usual, nothing was found and there was some relief from William Radolph Sloan’s paranoia. Margie had been enjoying the break from the constant soothing, the constant reassurance that Willaim Randolph Sloan needed to become copasetic enough to run the day to day business of the daily. She was getting tired of the peculiar looks she received when she picked up a pair of slippers from the near-by department store.

“This is the last pair we have,” the polite girl behind the counter informed her. “We won’t have another shipment in until December.”

Margie was sure that there would not be a need for another pair of slippers for Mr. Sloan. No, she was almost sure that she’d have a break now that he was over his ‘Bugs In The Office’ phase.

How wrong she was.

“Dammit, Margie. Where could she be?”

William Randolf Sloan stared at the exposed wood that had recently become a familiar stain to his usually dark-oiled floor. Through his now-worn slippers, he rubbed his third toe against the grain that had served as his pacing path since receiving that mysterious phone call two weeks ago.

“Get me another pair, Margie.” He kicked off the offending footwear and sat heavily in his leather office chair. “Two and a half weeks. Nothing. Not a word. Where could she be?”

Margie gathered up the slippers, her glasses slipping off her slender nose. “Mr. Sloan. This is the second pair you’ve thrown out. I really think that maybe you should see a doctor.”

“What is a doctor going to do, Margie? A doctor isn’t going to bring my little girl back! What a ridiculous suggestion,” barked William Randolf Sloan.

Margie pushed her glasses back to their homey niche. She adjusted the chain to properly balance the two seashells that dangled from the gold rims. Quietly she cleared her throat and subtly popped a knot in her frail spine. She had not had a chance to lay down for more than an hour in the last two weeks.

“I think that maybe you should see a doctor. Maybe he could prescribe you something for your nerves.”

William Randolf Sloan slammed his fist against his desk. “My nerves are just fine.”

Margie clutched at the slippers, her lips pressed in a small line. Again, she subtly popped a small knot that suddenly appeared in her neck.

“That was a damn wedding gift from your damn brother,” shrieked Mildred.

I looked around at the shards of glittering crystal and recognized the pieces as being from Mildred’s flask. A fresh mark was inches above my head– sap began to leak from the tree’s wound.

“You drink too much!” Brutus grunted back. “You drink too much and you have the mouth of a sailor.”

“You have the face of a damn…sailor… that’s sea sick! Damn it.” Mildred cleverly retorted.

“You have the brains of a gin-soaked rag!” Brutus snapped back.

“Say it… don’t spray it!” Their faces were an inch apart. The sweat from Brutus’ face dripped onto Mildred’s collarbone. Mildred’s busted lip dribbled onto Brutus’s elbow. In the evening’s light, you could almost make out the vapors that slipped from their parted lips.

Suddenly my stomach had more knots than a crocheted coverall for a cruise ship. Mildred and Brutus were…. were…. kissing.