Her name was Kendra. She’d tossed a wadded-up sticky note at his head last Tuesday. “Oops, thought you were the trash can.” The whole bullpen had howled.
Marco knew what they called him. Mop-head. Spic with a stick. The ghost. He heard the whispers over the hum of the vacuum, saw the way they lifted their expensive shoes when he mopped near their desks. He was furniture that bled. Rough Fuck By A Cleaner Who Was Made Fun Of
Then he did the rough thing. Not with his fists. With his silence. He grabbed her pricey ergonomic chair, spun her to face him, and unclipped her work badge from her blazer. He pinned it to his own gray uniform shirt. For a moment, he wore her name. Her name was Kendra
Kendra’s smirk faltered. “Jesus, relax. It was a joke.” Marco knew what they called him