Between the pale green, silver-spined fronds, round stems probe the air with tiny explorers at their tips. It’s pointless. The plant sits on top of a filing cabinet in an executive office on the fifth floor of a concrete box, yet it dangles its babies over the carpet in a futile effort to colonise.
“So, you’ll add those new elements to the proposal?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” I’m not really listening to anything the boss is saying, my mind is preoccupied. I admire the plant’s tenacity. Aren’t we all a little like that?
While the boss turns to his desk, I sidestep towards the plant. The tiny leaves of a baby pioneer tickle my arm. I twist a hand up behind my back and trace the cord to the mother plant.
“The new figures,” he says, holding out a sheet of paper.
I hesitate and he frowns. No good. I abandon operation liberate in favour of the offered paper and await another opportunity.
“Are you alright?”
Another frown and a slow shake of the head.
Then, in the brief seconds it takes for him to return to his desk chair, I make my move. A pinch of my fingernails snips the explorer free.
“You can go now.”
I keep my passenger out of site. This is one office spider plant that will colonise new ground.
Thanks for reading. I have always harboured a secret urge to steal baby spider plants. What about you?