32"

"I'm about to fire you."

For four seconds, silence was absolute. There were no moving body parts to create any noise - no wing-tipped foot tapping on the densely carpeted floor; no shifting arm to rustle a jacket sleeve; no blinking.

"I respect what you did to that jerk greatly as a person. Hugely. There was no less an epic bang you could have ended that meeting on. There was no greater cannon you could have sent him home in! I want to take you out for a beer," a light, two-handed table slap, "Right now. We can go to Ricardo's, relax a few hours, assuming you still have your cards in your desk. We could take Stan, Jim & Tim, since they saw it, too. My own ethic would demand no less. But."

Karl heaved a breath out, his shoulders, chest and smile compacting into much less jovial a volume. His hands were resting on top of the desk in his office, but he retreated them to his lap. They suddenly felt uncomfortable being close – nay, exposed – to the discomforting man sitting in the chair across the desk.

"But, I'm not here as a person. I'm here as..." He gave a quick sigh, expunging out the suddenly soulless term that came first to his mouth. Your manager. You-encompassing. He studied a little thread escaping from the seam of his pants, reaching towards the crease resting on top of his thigh. Hoping for the thread to grant him a new word, he looked up again and opened his mouth, flapped his tongue within, pushed air through, and hoped that the thread had given him a new word.

"...a business." Representative!, he thought, As a business representative. Entity. A second word! He inhaled, but too slow to convey to either of the two in the small office another, grace-saving word was on the way. Crap. It was all he could do now, to move his eyes from Peter's left eye; to his right; to his cheek, avoiding Peter's absolutely focused stare; back to his right eye; and then ashamedly to his desk's corner. It was a sharp corner, perfectly square; funny how the tip of the desk was where ninety degrees met three times, making broad planes, one sweeping between Peter and himself. Thirty-two inches was all the relief Karl had from this man that, up until hopefully just two minutes from now, is of his employ. Yet, having to fire Peter made him feel unbearably close. To release Peter would mean holding him in the first place; Karl felt as though Peter was a block of rabidly freezing ice, tucked under his arm, flush against the kidney.

"So," Peter started, nothing moving above or below his mouth, "Are you saying if I were to punch you, right now — you — then I wouldn't be punching a person, but... a business?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I don't think so. A person'd recoil; swell the cheeks; puff the eyes; tense the fore's, curl the fingers – throw a hand back at me." Peter took a breath through his nose, a deep, strictly-diaphragm breath visibly hidden by the folds of his shirt. Though it could not be seen, it was heard. "A business would just shrug and call security in, even if I were to keep on punchin'. No, sir, I'm immediately asking you if what you think you're doing is right as a person."

Karl assumed Peter's frosty pose, relaxing into a poker player's rigidness so his face would not betray the shock at Peter's hypothesis, and what it passed on. "Your threat wears a glass veil, Peter. Perfectly transparent, orally cumbersome, and negotiably clumsy."

Karl started low breathing. Letting his chest rise and fall could be interpreted as puffing up, intimidating; however primitive that may have sounded, this conversation was now running the risk of degrading into quite unprofessional fisticuffs. Looking now through his peripherals, Karl measured Peter's pose. Peter was upright, though his head was tilted forward ever so slightly, not requiring his neck to tense. His neck actually looked pretty relaxed, and his hands were hidden by the desk in his lap, so he probably wasn't thinking of testing Karl's "Personhood."

The top button of Peter's pink work shirt was undone; he must have been expecting such a light day. What a rude turn it had taken, in that meeting three long, long minutes ago.

Karl sat back, relaxing everything, purposefully leaving himself open. Peter may be a little hot in the head, but Karl knew that he just didn't have it in him to strike an unprepared opponent. Besides that, Karl had his own addage on potential fights like this: Don't fuck with a guy in pink. He's either a complete pansy you'd feel dirty about hitting later, or his comfort with himself is complete – his appearance, his physique, his capability. There's no punch like a pink punch.

Without leaning his torso forward, Peter stood. His eyes looked down at Karl, but his face stood in place. Karl suffered a five second loom. Peter looked forward, and said, "I accept."

For three seconds, there was no blinking.

"I'll go to my desk, and get my cards. I'll take the rest another day."

He turned around and opened the door to Karl's office, stepping out into the hall and hanging a left out of view.

For six seconds, there was no loom. Karl stood up and left his office, left the building, climbed into his car to head down to Ricardo's. There was a one-holed, glass peace pipe he had to offer. His ethics demanded no less.