“Stop eating the leaves, Stan!”
Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth.
“I should have know you’d be trouble,” I said, flipping through the accounting records. “It’s been a rough few months, we’ll have to close if we keep this up. We need to draw more people.”
Stan spat out the pages and walked over to the blackboard in one big step, ducking to avoid the fluorescents. The chalk between his teeth, he began to draw a stick figure.
“Not that kind of draw, you long-necked twit.”
The giraffe dropped the chalk and went back to nosing through the books on the highest shelf. Wth his tongue, he opened a cloth-covered, vintage edition (they tasted so much better with age) and ripped out a page, slowly, so as to not be heard.
“I told you to stop eating the leaves, Stan!” I slammed my hands on my desk and glared at him.
Stan stopped chewing and turned to look at me, torn pages dangling from his mouth. After a few moments, he began to chew again. I sipped my bitter coffee and went back to flipping through the accounting records.