'I know why' by Sumant Bhatia

Why do I pick up a coffee from young barista Carla with the deep Italian accent?

And why do I pick up an apple, red, shiny, staring at me longingly from a nearby bowl?

And why do I not take the lift, but the stairs, up three flights, as I look at my so delicate
paunch that threatens to expose itself, ever so slightly, through my white cotton shirt?

And why does the company, a company that prides itself on its safety, as well as filling
our day with endless meetings and meaningless tasks, insist on us holding the handrail,
when I have my hands full?

And why does a manager, younger than me, see me, stop me and remind me of the
sacred rule?

And why, on this day, do I decide to tell him, that rules are silly, and that he should,
politely, f*** off?

Why does he threaten to report me and ask my name?

And why do I delicately place down my coffee on a step, carefully balance the apple in
the mouth of the cup, step over to him… look down… and… give him my name, my
company number, then shake his hand and walk out of the building with the utmost
clarity?