She avoided computers at all cost. “Computers hate me,” she would say, which became a burden to other employees who took up the slack in work she didn’t do. I swore to never enable her, and one day peeked into her cubicle to see what she did all day instead of work.

She sat there, spaced out, doing nothing. Finally, she reached for the mouse – and the monitor smashed her in the face. The monitor arm recoiled to its original position as she cried softly.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She turned, her nose bleeding. “Computers hate me,” she whimpered.

Fighting Machine

I glare at the wall and wait for my machine to respond.

It whirs. Clicks. Thumps a few times. It should’ve done something by now.

I wait. Flick a switch. Tap the keys. Once more.

The seconds crawl into minutes on the wall. I breathe. The machine whirs and thumps and whirs and clicks. On the outside, I am pure patience.

On the inside, I’m in a fighting rage. I’ve already smashed the machine against the wall a thousand times.

On the outside, I wait.

They assured me the machine would free up my time. Instead, I’ve become its slave.