Lunchtime awaits the herd everyday at eleven in the cubicle farm. Folks mill around the refrigerator and microwave, retrieving sandwiches and heating up last night's leftovers. You grab yours and take your food to your seat because it's the only time they let you have personal internet time.
In the cube next to yours, you hear your neighbor snore. It is no ordinary snore. It is one of legend, worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records if there was such a category for loudest, most obnoxious snore. It varies from sighs that linger, sudden gasps that startle, to pained gurgling reminiscent of a person with a mouth full of Listerine. It starts and stops in fits. You surreptitiously open and slam drawers to wake him, this menace to your hour of tranquility. It grants you a reprieve, but it never lasts. You try to zone him out as you catch up on the day's headlines.
At noon, it stops. He wakes up as if by some internal clock. You resist the urge to key his car.
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