Recoil

Illustrated by Orban
Walter Franks sat in the director's office; his feet on the director's desk. He was smoking one of the director's cigarettes. He was drinking the director's liquor, filched shamelessly from the director's private filing cabinet where it reposed in the drawer marked S. Drawer B would have given beer, but Walt preferred Scotch.
He leaned forward and tossed the director's cigarette into the director's wastebasket and then he pressed the button on the desk and looked up.
But it was not the director's secretary who entered. It was his own, but that did not disturb Franks. He knew that the director's secretary was off on Mars enjoying a honeymoon with the director.
Jeanne entered and smiled. Must you call me in here to witness you wasting the company's time? she asked in mock anger.
Now look, Jeanne, this is what Channing does.
No dice. You can't behave as Don Channing behaves. The reason is my husband.
I didn't call to have you sit on my lap. I want to know if the mail is in.
I thought so, she said. And so I brought it in with me. Anything more?
Not until you get a divorce, laughed Franks.
You should live so long, she said with a smile. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Walt thumbed his way through the mail, making notations on some, and setting others aside for closer reading. He came to one and tossed it across the desk at Jeanne. She took the message and read: