The Last Yogurt
A fluorescent-humming office kitchenette on the 11th floor of a mid-tier insurance company in Columbus, Ohio, at 12:01 PM on a Tuesday.
There is one Chobani Flip S'mores left in the communal fridge, and both Double and Bust reached for it at the exact same time. The fridge log — yes, someone laminated a fridge log — shows neither name. A passive-aggressive Post-it on the shelf reads "LINDA'S — DO NOT TOUCH" but Linda quit six weeks ago. HR has been cc'd on lesser disputes.
“Linda's gone, the yogurt's grieving, and I'm the only one here brave enough to give it closure.”
“There are forty-seven people on this floor, three of whom cry at their desks regularly, and you want to be the yogurt thief that breaks them?”
Double ate the yogurt in three defiant spoonfuls. By 12:14 PM, a reply-all chain of seventeen emails revealed it belonged to Diane from Compliance, who had been tracking her Chobani inventory in a color-coded spreadsheet since March — and who now stood in the kitchenette doorway holding a printed screenshot of the security camera footage.
I'm not saying I'd do it differently, but I would've checked for cameras.
She has a spreadsheet, Double. A color-coded spreadsheet. You brought a spoon to a data fight.