Sleeping on a guillotine

This month the company I'm working for sought bankruptcy protection. We were gathered like schoolchildren in the cafeteria and promised in the language fitting for pre-schoolers that nothing will change in our lives. The paycheck will keep coming, the benefits will be paid, because we are too valuable to be terminated. I mean the company.

Then yesterday, all news outlets in the town broadcasted the news that the company is about to close today. And, again, reassurances from our executives, sounding like parents who are reluctantly sending their children away: mommy and daddy loves you so much, we'll never stop loving you.

Last night sleep felt like sleeping on a guillotine. This morning the atmosphere at work is nervous. Panic bubbles right beneath the surface. Everybody talks a bit louder than usually, laughs a bit more insincerely and goes to the washroom more often. But, the blade didn't fall. It's past noon and we are still around. The news from the court is that the doom is postponed. We'll all go home tonight and put our pillows under the guillotine, hoping its hanging blade will stay where it is - suspended in the air, indefinitely.