Ping Pong

Ping Pong was a metaphor.

Ping Pong is a metaphor.

Stuart wasn't sure. In either way. Not that it mattered.

Leah had destroyed his train of thought as she walked by his office, loudly cracking open what must have been her 7th Diet Coke of the day.

Disgusted he fired off an instant chat message asking, 'Does she ever drink fucking water!' of a sympathetic co-worker who was equally disgusted by Leah.

'Who?'

'Leah!?!?!'

'Oh.'

'She just cracked open her 3 o'clock Diet Coke.'

Stuart could see that his co-worker wasn't typing. Was waiting. For what Stuart was going to write. Should it be what he really felt? Or should he drop it.

The cursor in the instant message chat application blinked at him. Egging him on. So he wrote, 'I'd like to tie her up in her office, tape her mouth shut, and pour Diet Coke after Diet Coke in her nose.'

'MAN! That's messed up,' the sympathetic co-worker wrote, followed by an emoticon that emoted that Stuart was funny yet disturbing.

'You need to chill,' the sympathetic co-worker added.

Stuart stared at the cursor. Started typing, 'You're right. I'm sick of this place. And she represents everything that I'm sick of. I bet her urine smells and looks like that fucking Diet Coke.'

'DUDE. YOU'RE FREAKING ME OUT.'

'Sorry...' Stuart typed. Stopped. Smiled. And inserted a smiley face emoticon to show that he was kidding.

But Stuart wasn't sure if he was kidding.

The same way he wasn't sure if Ping Pong was a metaphor. Or is a metaphor.