For years I’ve woken up in a mysterious haze, hearing those voices just beyond the walls, beyond the walls of my three-walled enclosure. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hazily walked around in my khakis looking for its source. Frustrated by my inability to locate the root of the chatting, I falsely accused my coworkers, the next aisle over, and fantasized about them being replaced. But then I caught a break. Arriving early one morning for reasons I can’t explain, I stumbled across the real origin of the incessant chatting — a small group, working on the opposing side with their voices reflecting. Periodically they would chitter-chatter, then pause as I approached, and they’d pick it up again as I retreated to my sitcom set of an office. At first, I thought the squeaking of my shoes foreshadowed my intentions, and they stopped to avoid discovery. But once again, my initial instinct proved to be wrong. After a long conversation with the wall of my cube, I learned that they were cackling about the first group. I have since apologized to the first group, well not out loud, and they, not surprisingly, acted like it all never happened.