The microwave was rotating Danica-from-accounting’s tuna bake, the fan churning out an oppressive fog of tinned fish and cream of mushroom soup. Since the school’s expansion, the staff kitchen doubled as the sessional office. The contract lecturers were trenched in cubicles against the far wall while molecules from other people’s lunches permeated their clothes. Eric propped open the door as a sign of solidarity. Now that he had tenure, it was awkward talking to colleagues who didn’t know if they’d be back from term to term. Empathy and condescension were often the same coin. A post-doc was there now, having drawn the straw to teach five hundred undergrads that the earth is a limited resource. “Fight the good fight,” Eric wanted to say, but the man had already hunched back towards his screen.
(written by Claire Tacon and read by Chioke I'Anson)
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