"And that glaze," Miller noted, pointing a finger dangerously close to a drip of fig jam. "That looks home-made." "My wife makes it," Arthur said defensively.
Finally, Miller crossed his arms and let out a light, good-natured chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.
Within thirty seconds, five people were standing around Arthur’s desk, staring down at the 6-inch pocket of bread. Arthur instinctively pulled the greaseproof paper tighter around the sourdough, clutching it to his chest like a cornered animal. I Hope You Brought Enough for Everyone! (16.12....
With surgical precision, Arthur hacked the artisanal roll into six equal, microscopic cubes. The prosciutto shredded. The Camembert oozed out onto the dull grey laminate of his desk. The fig glaze smeared into a sticky purple puddle.
"Just lunch," Arthur muttered, keeping his head down. He raised the sandwich to his lips. "And that glaze," Miller noted, pointing a finger
Arthur froze, the crust just brushing his mustache. "It's just a small sandwich."
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur set the sandwich down on his desk. He reached into his middle drawer and pulled out a heavy pair of industrial steel scissors he used for trimming ledger covers. The crowd gasped in anticipation. Snip. Snip. Snip. Within thirty seconds, five people were standing around
Arthur watched in horror as Sarah followed Miller. Then, like meerkats sensing rain, three more heads popped up from the data entry pool.