Monday in the Office
Monday at Rabagas began with three broken mugs, Ragna declaring war on the printer, Herman juggling a spreadsheet and a pastry, and the newsroom still failing to remember the SOME guy’s name — twice before lunch.
A RABAGAS Day-in-the-Life
The elevator doors opened with a metallic sigh, as though they too regretted being part of Monday.
Ragna Tunseth stepped out first, juggling her tote bag, a box of freshly printed zines, and a croissant in its third stage of collapse. She was the sort of person who looked like she could run a guerilla press in a basement if the entire publishing industry fell tomorrow — which, to be fair, was part of her long-term contingency plan. A smear of printer ink ran along her wrist like an accidental bracelet.
“Morning, Ruth,” she called, sliding past the reception desk where Ruth, the half-thin, all-knowing office manager, sat like a lighthouse in human form. Ruth’s smile was immediate, conspiratorial — the kind that suggested she already knew three things about your day you didn’t. She had already taken off her coat, filed three invoices, and discovered — through methods unknown — that the coffee machine was about to die.
“It’s not making the right noises,” Ruth said, in the way other people might announce the death of a head of state. “Today’s the day.”
Ragna followed her gaze toward the corner of the break room where the hulking espresso machine sat, ominously still, the small green light on its panel blinking with the uneven rhythm of a dying heartbeat. “Do we… prepare a eulogy?”
“Only if you want to see grown men cry,” Ruth replied, nodding toward the glass doors.
