Short Fiction
“My assurance. Your assurance. Mazza’s. The company’s.” “All the same assurance?” 2408331378 “I’ll say nothing until Mazza arrives,” Fasano says. Mazza arrives, jogging in, breathing hard. He’s in workout clothes, a soaked headband. “Handball,” he says, “every day on my lunch hour. And after the meeting I’ll need to shower, Boss?” “Understandable,” Fasano says. “A seat.” Mazza sits, looks up at Howell. “Hey, you’re standing?—oh, yeah, forgot why we’re here!” “That means?” Howell says. “Shall we shut the door, Gentlemen?” Fasano says. “Or keep it open for assurance?” “More assurance?” Howell says. “I for one,” Mazza says, “am down with assurance—then again, the door, hey, it’s why we’re here!” He laughs, gives Howell‘s pant leg a slap. “Ouch,” Howell says. “We’re here, Howell,” Fasano says, “airing things out.” This time Mazza slaps his own knee. “Airing things out! Airing things in!” “Really, Mazza,” Fasano says, “you’re only assurance. Now, Howell, normally I would not conduct this meeting, but I’ve been asked, as your superior, to discuss your habits.” Atticus Review│Get Lit: Round 1
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