(This is a bit Seussian.

But, if I were to write a picture book,

it’d be like this.)

The quiche sat on the desk,

my beloved coworker’s quiche.

She left her desk.

I snatched the quiche, but I did not snitch.

I held it close to my nose and sniffed.

I wafted waves of fragrant bacon.

And then I walked away.

My friend came back and I confessed,

“I snatched your quiche, but I did not snitch.”

But still, it was a transgression to waft without permission.

My friend was kind and she replied,

“You can caress my quiche whenever you wish.”