Before I leave, I put in my false heart, which sits in front of my regular heart. The false heart is made of thin red plastic and covers my real heart, quiets the beating, an extra protection.

I walk slowly to the office. I have a short daydream about my body back home, in bed, in the warmth and sheets. The vision washes over me like a drug, what a pleasant pleasure just to imagine it.

AT MY DESK, I TYPE THE BALD MAN’S notes. My fingers buzz across the keyboard, letters kicked up like the black wings of crushed bugs.

“My god, you’re fast,” the boss says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re like a goddamn automatic weapon,” he says. “What did you do this weekend?”

I go clammy, a bit of sweat on the brow, in the palms, beneath the arms.

“Nothing much,” I say.

A deep silence stands between us, my mouth a closed shell I pry open.

“...And you?” I tack on.

“Oh, you know, took the old boat out, a few rounds of golf, a nice steak.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

He offers a wink through his greasy glasses, upon which I note the specific swirls of his fingerprints.

“You keep typing that fast, that could be your life someday,” he says.

I picture it: My mouth full of steak, the steak in my mouth, the steak between my teeth, strings of fat in the molars, my jaw aching from always chewing, chewing and swallowing until I’m so full that my throat sews itself shut.

◆Most workers spend 1,896 hours per year at the office

◆The average office worker spends 50 minutes per day looking for lost files

◆Stewardesses is one of the longest words typed with only the left hand

◆A typist’s fingers travel 12.6 miles on the average work day

ON CERTAIN DAYS, WHAT HAPPENED IN the Meat Quarry rises up from my belly and seizes my heart.

I can feel his hands on me.

I can feel my body pressed into the red.

Wasn’t that nice? You liked that, didn’t you?

I shove those feelings back down into the knot.

VISION

On Wednesdays, Jarred meets me halfway between our offices, on the concrete. His eyes glint pleasant as metal. Joy rises up in my chest to see him, to slide my hand into his.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“I typed the president’s notes again,” I say. “How was your day?”

“I worked on the computers,” he says. “The usual.”

We wander the blocks, lazy-legged. The sun seems to be in our favor, washing over our arms, a false summer. The beast in my heart rests, calm, fangs in. A slow spool of silver thread unwinds in my bloodstream, a shiver of pleasure.