Work was quiet.  I leaned against a filing cabinet, waiting for my Supervisor to dole out assignments.  A few of my co-workers sat nearby reading.

The NY Post.  Car and Driver.

I heard the door open and shut behind me.  One of the head Supervisors
walked in.  My boss’ boss.  As he walked by me, he jabbed me in the
ribs with his finger.

“That’s technically Assault,” I scowled at him.

“I know,” he said.

His little violation of my “space” shattered my mood.  I didn’t feel
threatened by him, but his social ineptitude astounds me.  He is
oblivious to boundaries, and no one at work respects him.

He jabbed me again, harder.

“Don’t poke me in the ribs,” I said coldly, looking him straight in the eyes.  He stared back.  His face cut into a stupid grin.

“You ticklish or something?”

“No.  I don’t like being poked.  Please don’t do it again.”

Poke.

God dammit, motherfucker! I thought.

“I’m not fucking kidding.  Don’t do it again . . .” I said, my voice low and lethal.

I forced myself not to bark at him.  I knew escalating my tone would only make me madder.  I locked eyes with him and he pressed his lips together.

I turned my head away from him and made brief eye contact with one of the senior guys.  A look of understanding passed between us.

I pulled on my gloves and went to work.