As her cubicle mate of two years, Jon was sick of it. Sheila was a terminally shy soul, a human doormat, apt to crying jags.
“Sheila,” he said over her sniffles. “Do you have to make that noise? I know that you are going through some nasty stuff right now. Between your boyfriend breaking things off and Jackie from sales being a witch to you, I get it.”
Her crying was louder now, forcing Jon to raise his voice.
“If you want things to change, you’ve got to speak up!”
“Jon,” sobbed Shelia. “Your chair is on my toe!”
“Oh,” said Jon. “Sorry.”