Ninety-seven

The noise of Bob's’s heeled shoes pacing up and down disturbed the peace of the office. Every once in a while, someone would look up with a sigh.

“What’s wrong with him, anyway?” An elderly woman would whisper to the lady in the desk right next to her and the lady would shrug in response. They’d never seem their boss this agitated.

“Dear God!” Bob groaned in silence as he thought of how desperate and pathetic he must have sounded while he begged Jessica to take the job. He’d hoped that the mere offer of handing her the job she’d lost would be enough for her but apparently she was a hard nut to crack and he had to beg and beg until he threw in his last and final card: the party package of the house, car and massive salary increase that was usually meant for top tier journalists that were risking their lives.

“I hate making promises,” was the last thing she’d said before ending the call abruptly.

The nerve! Bob had thought in utter rage and if he wasn’t in the company facility he woul