Always good at hide and seek, even as a kid. Small, flexible, I get goosebumps when I feel myself enclosed. My fantasy is to be buried alive, wood and velvet tight to my limbs.
There’s a rumour going around the shop that I fuck the french loaf halves before everyone else clocks in. When they ask me about it, I just smile and wink. I steal sandwiches out from their lunchboxes and then casually return them during dinnerbreak. Here you go. Sorry, I took the wrong one. Smile. Wink. They go straight in the bin. When the room is empty I rescue them, before Frank dumps his half-drunk coffee. It’s hungry work being this unpopular.
Frank the Wank, as his name suggests, hides in the toilet cubicles to shit and sperm. I hear the many rings on his fingers rattling away, and his soft grunts growing in severity. Everyone loves Frank though. There’s no rumours about him sticking it into baked goods, and no one believes me when I tell them about his adventures in the restrooms.
They think I’m fucked up, which is a lousy expression at the best of times. Some want to pound my eyes, the rest are scared of infection. So, when no one is looking, I go to a corner of the warehouse, move the boxes of beans, remove the secret panel to the crawl space, and fold inside. Drawing my knees up to my chin, I read with the book pressed to my face.