Already it is nine. She is usually in by nine, already at her desk and working through the first tasks of the day, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, no milk and one sugar, and the radio turned low. If I wheel my chair to the edge of my allotted space, or get to my feet looking as though I am stretching my legs or my back, I can see her. Normally, I can. But today she is late. Already it is nine.
The boy from the mailroom comes round at ten. His name’s Sam and he stops to spend time with her; most days he does, even when he has no mail to deliver. He laughs and makes her laugh, too, and she plays with her auburn hair and touches his arm when she’s talking to him. I watch the games that they play; and he is just a kid, Sam is, and he walks taller after time with her, carries his good humour through the rest of his whistle-bright morning. Today Sam scowls at me over the partition wall, drops three letters into my tray and says ‘fuck’ under his breath, not at me, but at her empty desk.
Her phone rings late in the morning and the rest of the office is quiet so I notice, and I look to left and right, and no one pays the ringing phone any small attention, no one except me. And I notice when it stops ringing too, and the sudden snap-silence that the ringing phone leaves behind is something I also notice.
It’s not her day off and there’s nothing in the book about an appointment or a family bereavement or a course she might be on. Nothing in the book at all.
We eat lunch together normally, in the canteen, at the same table. She has soup most days followed by something sweet and sticky. I eat by myself today, staring at the chair opposite, her chair, imagining her there and seeing her sucking the last bits of sugar from her fingers. But not today.
Then I am cross and I shouldn’t be. I am cross that she is not there. There’s nothing between us, not anything said, not anything real. It’s just lunch and it’s just every day. But still I am cross she is not there. I snap at Doreen in reception and she says,’ Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’
The afternoon drags, more than it normally does, and the hands on the clock seem stuck, and I get little work done. I look like I’m busy, but it is just a look. No one says anything about her not being in and I don’t ask. It’s like they all know and they think I know, that’s what it feels like. Bob invites me out for a drink after work, and normally I would, but I say I can’t. He winks at me and says, ‘rain-check’. I leave work late.
Wow, Lindsay, I enjoyed this – you pack a lot of emotion and energy into seven paragraphs! Thinking of that time before a cloud bursts – that tension and charged energy, everything in limbo.
Already it is nine. She is usually in by nine, already at her desk and working through the first tasks of the day, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, no milk and one sugar, and the radio turned low. If I wheel my chair to the edge of my allotted space, or get to my feet looking as though I am stretching my legs or my back, I can see her. Normally, I can. But today she is late. Already it is nine.
The boy from the mailroom comes round at ten. His name’s Sam and he stops to spend time with her; most days he does, even when he has no mail to deliver. He laughs and makes her laugh, too, and she plays with her auburn hair and touches his arm when she’s talking to him. I watch the games that they play; and he is just a kid, Sam is, and he walks taller after time with her, carries his good humour through the rest of his whistle-bright morning. Today Sam scowls at me over the partition wall, drops three letters into my tray and says ‘fuck’ under his breath, not at me, but at her empty desk.
Her phone rings late in the morning and the rest of the office is quiet so I notice, and I look to left and right, and no one pays the ringing phone any small attention, no one except me. And I notice when it stops ringing too, and the sudden snap-silence that the ringing phone leaves behind is something I also notice.
It’s not her day off and there’s nothing in the book about an appointment or a family bereavement or a course she might be on. Nothing in the book at all.
We eat lunch together normally, in the canteen, at the same table. She has soup most days followed by something sweet and sticky. I eat by myself today, staring at the chair opposite, her chair, imagining her there and seeing her sucking the last bits of sugar from her fingers. But not today.
Then I am cross and I shouldn’t be. I am cross that she is not there. There’s nothing between us, not anything said, not anything real. It’s just lunch and it’s just every day. But still I am cross she is not there. I snap at Doreen in reception and she says,’ Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’
The afternoon drags, more than it normally does, and the hands on the clock seem stuck, and I get little work done. I look like I’m busy, but it is just a look. No one says anything about her not being in and I don’t ask. It’s like they all know and they think I know, that’s what it feels like. Bob invites me out for a drink after work, and normally I would, but I say I can’t. He winks at me and says, ‘rain-check’. I leave work late.
Wow, Lindsay, I enjoyed this – you pack a lot of emotion and energy into seven paragraphs! Thinking of that time before a cloud bursts – that tension and charged energy, everything in limbo.
I agree, Susan. Thanks for reading. And Lindsay, as always, thanks for writing.
Very enjoyable, nice tension. And once again, you and I flirt with the same theme…http://judithlindenau.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/may-16-2013-sometimes-at-the-office/