First there were the rumors, then firsthand reports from coworkers and family, but now finally after two years our suspicions have been confirmed: everyone you know has their own deeply fulfilling imaginative life, whether it be those Fifty Shades of Grey fantasies in which we know Sharon indulges in her cubicle, or the full-on Walter Mitty dream-trances our own regional director of press relations Phil entertains over in his corner office.

Everyone except Steve.

You see, Steve has no imagination. When he looks at the bubbles coming up in the water cooler he thinks, Bubbles: pockets of air in water. When Sharon bends waaaaaaaaay over to pick up the hankie she just dropped again Steve rubs his chin and says to himself, ‘Caramel pantyhose, probably H’Iips with microtoning action.’ When the prank caller says, ‘Is this Steve? Hi Steve, your wife is sitting on my c***, man,’ Steve replies, in some confusion, ‘No she isn’t.’ When the prank caller continues, ‘Well Steve it doesn’t matter because your car is on fire,’ Steve tells the caller that that is just the barbecue.

We like Steve. He is a nice guy, and what he does in the privacy of his own mind is no one’s business but his own. The problem began when he made one thousand literal copies of the Tuesday board meeting notes, and pointed out that there is an I in EFFICIENCY, and then literally drew the shades on Sharon.

‘What do you want me to sit here in the dark,’ she quipped, giving a nervous laugh.

Steve did not walk over and place his strong hands on her shoulders, as he was supposed to.

That’s when all the trouble started.