As happens when the monthly deadline nears, the staff room at Defenestration is appropriately frenzied. Things are late, things are misspelled, coffee is slowly pouring down between the keys of the only computer we have (Atari, man. Wave of the future). It’s a mess.

However, it’s rare we lose an entire person.

Imagine our surprise when, at 4pm this afternoon, we noticed that Eileen had gone walkabout and was nowhere to be found!

Naturally, we tried the usual places first–the petting zoo nearby, the botanical gardens (flowers help her think pretty thoughts), under the pile of fan mail Bigfoot receives on a daily basis and under which we lost Ben Franklin for nearly a week –with no luck.

“Maybe she’s gone to see Mission: Impossible,” Andrew said, carefully punctuating it even in speech.

“Impossible,” I said, and it was.

There was a note on her desk, cryptically written in bold script: BK L tf.

“My God,” I cried, “it’s a message,” and immediately logged on to buy us group tickets to see The Da Vinci Code.

“I’m telling you,” said Andrew, “Mission: Impossible. She loves that little dude.”

“Tom Cruise?”

“MI-3,” Andrew said as I clicked around pictures of a doughy Tom Hanks. “This isn’t MI-3.”

“They look the same to me,” I said, because seriously.

“WOMAN,” Andrew screamed, scaling the oversize chair we keep in the office, “I am TELLING you, MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE! THAT LITTLE DUDE IS IMPOSSIBLE TO RESIST! HIS INFECTIOUS ENTHUSIASM WILL CONQUER US ALL!”

At that moment, Benjamin Franklin, on his way back from the copier, paused and looked at Eileen’s note. “Someone got coffee on that,” he said.

“But who would do such a thing?” I asked breathlessly, as the lighting in the office became suspiciously stark.

He gave me a knowing look. “Coffee is a sign that God loves us and wants us to be wired.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said, Back Later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the shadows.

“I BROKE THE LIGHT SO WE HAVE TO GO SEE MISSION IMPOSSIBLE NOW,” called Andrew from the couch.

As I write this, by the light of a single candle, Andrew has fallen to the sickness and is watching Tom Cruise masturbate all over expensive set pieces. I am alone, and the mystery of Eileen’s whereabouts might never be known.

I entrust this to you, then, dear reader–if you see her–remember.

———-

Eileen was gone, and didn’t actually write this. Genevieve did.

Eileen really did come back later.