REBEL HEARTS IN THE BREAK ROOM

The first time I ran into Roger was in the break room of our soul-sucking advertising agency—a place where creativity went to die, or at least take a very long nap. He lounged against the kitchenette, flipping through a magazine that seemed to have time-traveled from a pre-Y2K dentist’s office. His tie was askew, and his defeated posture screamed, "I've given up and it's only 10 a.m."

We bonded instantly over our mutual loathing of our supervisor, Janice, whose passive-aggressive notes were legendary. Imagine a Post-it that says, "Please remember to clean up after yourself :)" and you get the idea. Roger had the uncanny ability to mimic her sugary, yet venomous tone, turning him into a clandestine office comic. Before long, our break times became a haven of sarcastic impressions and whispered mockery.

Our friendship blossomed in the harsh lighting of corporate corridors and during marathon meetings where our eyes would lock in a shared, silent scream. Roger had this ability to make even the most mundane tasks feel like mini-rebellions, like when he'd lead us on secret rooftop smoke breaks—cigarettes and conspiracies under the open sky.

We evolved from mere gossip buddies to deeper confidants. Roger dreamed of becoming a stand-up comedian, while I harbored a clandestine ambition to write a novel. We became each other's therapists, motivational speakers, and escape artists in a place that thrived on grinding souls into dust. But the agency had a way of turning even the brightest spirits into monochrome cogs in a profit-driven machine. Roger’s witty banter grew increasingly tinged with bitterness. I noticed, but chalked it up to a temporary funk. Surely, he’d snap out of it.

Then, one day, Roger simply evaporated. His desk—a jungle of papers and half-empty coffee cups—was suddenly a minimalist’s dream. The office grapevine buzzed with rumors: Roger had staged a dramatic exit, complete with a smirk and a one-finger salute. I liked to imagine him on stage, making people laugh instead of drowning in corporate sludge.

Weeks morphed into months, and Roger's absence became a gaping hole in the fabric of my work life. The break room grew colder, meetings dragged on, and Janice’s notes seemed even more insufferable. I missed our rooftop conspiracies, our shared glances, and the absurdity he brought to the daily grind.

Then, one Friday evening, as I trudged out of the office, I saw him. Roger, in the flesh, standing on the corner and handing out flyers for a comedy club. Gone was the corporate armor, replaced by a worn leather jacket and a sparkle in his eyes that screamed mischief and freedom. Without a word, he handed me a flyer, his smile a silent invitation to join him in a life less ordinary. It wasn't just an invite to his show—it was a reminder that friendship can be a lifeline, even in the most mundane of places.

As I walked away, I saw him raise an invisible glass, toasting to our shared rebellion. In that fleeting moment, I realized something: Roger hadn't escaped; he'd transcended. And maybe, just maybe, we could all carve out a bit of our own irreverent freedom, one flyer at a time.

Cassandra Byte

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