A Lunch
I took quick steps to the break room, knowing one my coworker would catch up if I was too slow. "Headin' to the fridge?" one asked as I opened the fridge door. "Yeah," I said, grabbing my lunchbox. The fridge smelled like deviled eggs and sandwich meats. I took my time, but my coworkers waited by the elevators. "Oh y'all could've gone down," I said. "We wouldn't leave without you," they replied. I grimaced. All of our microwaves take three minutes. Three fucking minutes. Even with napkins I can't hardly touch my glass tupperware without burning a fingertip. Damn thin napkins. The lunch conversation dragged. I tried to pick it up with an off-color joke. It was met with discomfort, but I managed a pained smile. "But what do you guys think about Hiroshima?" a coworker asked. I remained silent, my pained smile becoming more painful. "I think it made the Japanese think twice," said another. I piled my greas...