The microwaves in our break room on the Ninth Floor aren't working, which pisses me off. Chad does a Starbucks run and returns with an Americano and a raspberry croissant for me, but as usual I find their croissants a little dry, so I go into the break room to nuke the thing for like, ten seconds.
But no. There are four microwaves, and none of them work. I check to make sure they're plugged in - they are. Maybe there's a problem with a fuse? I unplug one of the microwaves and plug a toaster into the same outlet - it works fine. How can four microwave ovens all stop working at the same time? This might not seem like a big deal to you, but damn it, I want my raspberry croissant warmed up!
"Work, you fucking cocksuckers!" I snarl at the microwaves.
Aaron Clarke, one of the QuantumWorks project vice presidents, stops in the hall outside the break room. He regards me with that judgmental English professor face of his.
"Problem, Mr. Mackenzie?" Clarke says.
"Yeah, the damn microwaves are all broken. All of them!"
He nods, as if this makes perfect sense. "Ah, of course. I'll have them replaced."
Just then Margo, who is walking down the hall, stops beside Clarke. She's wearing a cute 3/4 length black cashmere sweater and a pleated plaid skirt. She's beautiful. "You guys smell that? That bacon smell?"
Clarke sniffs the air, then says, "No, I'm sorry, I don't."
Now that she mentions it, I can smell the faint aroma of cooking bacon. I've noticed that smell several times in the past few months. "Yeah, what is that?"
"It's driving me crazy," Margo says, then moves on. Clarke nods to me and walks away.
Shit, I guess I'll have to go down to Eight where the microwaves work and it doesn't smell like bacon.