The airbrushed retirement cake read, “Happy Retirement Barry”.
Barrie felt the misspelling was a Crisco laden representation of how irrelevant his position had become.
Swing top trash cans overflowing with solo cups and paper plates, conveyed an end to the festivities.
Back at his desk, it was laden with outdated office supplies. The office hummed with impersonal clicking on laptop keyboards, a cold replacement for face-to-face conversations.
Barrie felt a hand on his shoulder.
“You ready Dad?”
He looked up at his Son, “Time to pass the torch I guess Son”.
I’ll take care of it Pops!