At 3:05 Thursday afternoon Clint looked into Pam’s cubicle. “I saw your email from earlier. Do you have time to answer a question?”
Pam huffed as she looked over her mountain of work. “I don’t have time right now.”
“My dad always said it wasn’t whether we had the time, it’s whether we made the time,” said Clint, pleasantly.
Pam glared at him over her glasses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s funny, we always seem to have time to do the things we want, but rarely enough to do the things we must.”
Pam flipped her pen in the air. “What’re you, some kind of philosopher? I can’t help you right now, so go away.”
Clint stared at her with puppy dog eyes, then slowly backed away.
His pathetic look infuriated Pam. “And another thing. We don’t make time. We all have the same amount every day. We can prioritize it, manage it, weigh it, try to save it, use it to our advantage, live in it, embrace it, cherish it, balance it, even waste it. But we can’t make any more of it. Ever. So stop patronizing me with what your father said and mind your own business.”
Clint leaned against the cubicle wall. “You know, in the time it took you to rant you could’ve answered my question. All I wanted to know was if that email was meant for me. I’m not even in your department.”
Pam’s face went blank. “Oh. Then, no. It must’ve been a typo.”
“I just wanted to make sure,” said Clint.
Pam focused back on her work. “Great, ‘cause time’s up.”