Naomi stared down at the coffee that she had been stirring for far too long at this point. She let go of the spoon and it clattered around the rim of the mug for a moment and then came to rest like a skiff-poll in a muddy river.
Peter had no right to talk to her that way, but how was she going to confront the ‘little incident’ that they had just had without looking like the token woman in the development office that she had often felt that she indeed was? He knew nothing about her life, he had no right to publicly interpret her good mood as having ‘gotten good and fucked’ over the weekend. She had no desire to answer his question, but more importantly she wanted and needed to stomp on the conversation that was now happening back at their little cubicle island whilst she made herself a coffee. She had heard this conversation about male colleagues; “I bet she was fugly” or “It doesn’t count with hookers…”, and registered her displeasure about that talk at work. Now it was about her and she was very angry.