Time of day was irrelevant. The allure, clearly too much. He couldn’t keep his hands off. Grubby, unwashed, nicotine stained fingers. The thought of them knocked me sick. And I was sure he didn’t wash his hands after the urinary act, or worse.
He was practically an addict, in more ways than one.
A magpie, diving for the shiny foil.
You could sense the impending lunge. A quick look around him, followed by an abrupt, purposeful throat clearing. Almost like his throat was collapsing under the constant strain of drags and tar.
Once he started, there was no stopping him. Grab after grab, more than is humanly possible. It was obscene. All you could do was sit, watch and listen.
I tried to blindside it at first and as weeks went by, I started to leave the room. On occasion, I actually ran out of the office, once I had casually walked by his desk.
The others thought I was overreacting. I wasn’t.
I wasn’t sure how they were dealing with it.
Offices can be a terrible place.
At first it started out as twice each day and that was too much. It soon became three and also obvious that I was avoiding the issue.
The others started to notice. Initially, they smiled and shook their heads as I left the room. Over time, they began to realise I had a point.
Some would join me I the kitchen to let the episode pass. Those that could stand to witness it, over and over, either laughed at me or had no idea what was going on.
I hated him.
Just for that, at first.
After a while, irrationally, I hated him for everything. Everything he did. Everything he was. Everything I imagined he did.
I pictured him alone, at home, sat in his underwear, covered in the filth of his obsession.
His pleasure became my disease.
He consumed my world.
How could anyone eat so many packets of crisps?