Six is the number of times a specific coworker of mine has come by my desk to ask if I feel the floor shaking.

The floor is shaking. Rhythmically. Our building is being torn down to be...rebuilt. For some reason. But the construction is busily tearing up something and today there's a steady, pulsing, shake like we're in Jurassic Park and a Tyrannosaurus is about to peer in through the window. 

But each and every time I stare at her like a dog shown a card trick and say, "No. What shaking?"

Why she keeps asking me, or why she hasn't asked anyone else, is beyond me. 

But there are worse ways to kill a Monday.