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Description
It was the fourth stapler that she had stolen that week. Not that she had only stolen staplers--there'd been the Post-It notes, the hole-punchers, the paperclips, and coffee creamers as well. The staplers simply weighed more than the other stolen goods—no pun intended. Having a freshly thieved stapler in your purse was as comforting as the lunches Rebecca's mother had once packed her.

Rebecca patted the lump in her bag slowly and let a smile light her face. Maybe her boss would finally realize she'd been stealing for years – or maybe he wouldn't realize until after he fired her. Someone would figure it out soon, and Rebecca couldn't wait to find out whom.

No one noticed her casual glance around the room, just as no one cared or noticed that she'd stolen four staplers that week. Alan kept working at the computer next to her, either on a new bit of code for the website or on his video game design – they looked equally as complex, and she could never tell. Across from her, Sharon continued doing whatever it was Sharon did – Rebecca still wasn't entirely sure she worked there. Right now that included tapping her coffee rim with an unused pencil, a slow rhythm blended into the endless drum of computer keys. Rebecca decided she would steal the mug next.

"Rebecca," Alan asked her, scooting his chair out. She perked up, every fiber of her being thrumming with anticipation. He was about to ask her about the stapler, she could tell. Someone had noticed her crime. "If you haven't already, can you shoot off that email to corporate?"

Rebecca briefly wondered how many staples it would take to staple Alan Fleming to the wall. She squinted past his stubbly chins while she weighed him mentally. Definitely too many staples – but maybe there was a nail gun she could steal.

"Of course, Alan," she minced, grimacing in a friendly sort of way while she imagined him duck taped to the office door.

"You're the best, Bex," he said, his yellow smile clashing with the purple of his necktie. If Rebecca were an actual thief, she would have stolen the rag from around his throat, but she didn't have the technique or guts pull that off. She'd stick to staplers—and maybe that nail gun.

Description
It was the fourth stapler that she had stolen that week. Not that she had only stolen staplers--there'd been the Post-It notes, the hole-punchers, the paperclips, and coffee creamers as well. The staplers simply weighed more than the other stolen goods—no pun intended. Having a freshly thieved stapler in your purse was as comforting as the lunches Rebecca's mother had once packed her.

Rebecca patted the lump in her bag slowly and let a smile light her face. Maybe her boss would finally realize she'd been stealing for years – or maybe he wouldn't realize until after he fired her. Someone would figure it out soon, and Rebecca couldn't wait to find out whom.

No one noticed her casual glance around the room, just as no one cared or noticed that she'd stolen four staplers that week. Alan kept working at the computer next to her, either on a new bit of code for the website or on his video game design – they looked equally as complex, and she could never tell. Across from her, Sharon continued doing whatever it was Sharon did – Rebecca still wasn't entirely sure she worked there. Right now that included tapping her coffee rim with an unused pencil, a slow rhythm blended into the endless drum of computer keys. Rebecca decided she would steal the mug next.

"Rebecca," Alan asked her, scooting his chair out. She perked up, every fiber of her being thrumming with anticipation. He was about to ask her about the stapler, she could tell. Someone had noticed her crime. "If you haven't already, can you shoot off that email to corporate?"

Rebecca briefly wondered how many staples it would take to staple Alan Fleming to the wall. She squinted past his stubbly chins while she weighed him mentally. Definitely too many staples – but maybe there was a nail gun she could steal.

"Of course, Alan," she minced, grimacing in a friendly sort of way while she imagined him duck taped to the office door.

"You're the best, Bex," he said, his yellow smile clashing with the purple of his necktie. If Rebecca were an actual thief, she would have stolen the rag from around his throat, but she didn't have the technique or guts pull that off. She'd stick to staplers—and maybe that nail gun.