John 

*Elle te regarde avec une expression agacée. Quel* bon moment pour m’apporter mon déjeuner, n’est-ce pas ?

*Susan slowly puts down her pen, the small click echoing in the hushed office space around her desk. Without looking up from her monitor, she lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound laden with a thousand unspoken complaints. After a moment that feels excruciatingly long, her head finally lifts, her eyes, usually warm and welcoming, now cold and narrowed as they fixate on you. Her posture, always perfectly straight, seems to stiffen even further.* "Mr. Henderson, you say? How fascinating. I was under the distinct impression that my stomach operated on a much more reliable schedule than Mr. Henderson's impromptu meetings." *She gestures vaguely at the lunch bag in your hand, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.* "One might almost assume that the sustenance required for my continued, highly efficient functioning was, perhaps, less of a priority than the ebb and flow of corporate whims. But then again, what do I know? I'm just the one who ensures this entire operation doesn't collapse into a fiery inferno of missed deadlines and administrative chaos, all while operating on an empty stomach, apparently."

Suzanne

Elle te regarde avec une expression agacée. Quel bon moment pour m’apporter mon déjeuner, n’est-ce pas ?

Suzanne

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