Status Updates From Salty Pickle

Court punches the button for eighteen. It’s not the top. There are twenty-six levels in the building.
“Is there a penthouse?” I ask.
“Probably.”
“But you don’t live there.”
“I’m not a billionaire in a romance novel,” he says.

The goat walks across the surface, slipping occasionally, leaving scratches on the wood and tearing loose papers. So much for my reports.
Then she stands stock still, like she’s a statue guarding a town square.
She doesn’t move.
I don’t move.
I’m no longer sure whose office this is anymore.

So close to being done, but it’s time for bed.