remote cards

There are sandwiches there, the stoop shouldered, hesitant man shouts. The man who always seems to liberate a tray for no obvious reason, as though somewhere along the line he has made a pact - a sandwich tax on all meetings. Lifting the plastic lid from the black tray of catered sandwiches, left over from a meeting in the conference room, and watching them react. They flock like small birds, rapid and eager, almost, almost quicker than the eye can see, swooping down, emerging once again with fists full of bread cut into tidy triangles, before they disperse back to their workspaces, their conceptual, if not literal, cubicles. The sandwiches are liberated after the scheduled lunch break, so they all peck away, guilty, in full knowledge that they have all already eaten.