Davide glances down at the banded ridges of his sternum
and realises he is a terrapin.
June's projected sales figures hang on the screen
like a guff in a windmill; someone at the back of the room coughs.
'As... as I was saying.' He tugs at his collar
with a flipper and tries to imagine his audience naked.
Underneath their suits, they are human as all hell:
genital hair, nipples, flesh that mulches in water.
He stabs the button for the next slide,
his dry shell scraping the wall.
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