The Office

After it happened, the cubicles descended to a muffled quiet. The type of quiet where if you strained, you could hear the carpet tick. There was no clatter of keyboards. No shuffling of papers in the office supply closet, though, once you saw the beam of the copier light crawling across its inked pane of glass from under the firedoor. The elevator rang once a day at exactly 1:13 PM EST even though no one boarded and no one left, the doors sliding open and closed like a guillotine. The blue walls began to fade to robin’s egg at an alarming rate and the wood began to peel from the unused desks by an unseen hand. Line by line, the remnants curling onto the rotting seats. Disintegrating to thread, the bones of the office building exposed and gaunt, not unlike a gaping paneless face.

I watch as teenagers parade through the halls on expeditions, pushing one another into the rotting furniture and defacing the walls. I never minded them in my life, but they disturb the quiet of my death too often. They inevitably find my office, with the blood splatter behind the chair I made sure could never be removed.

Their attitudes change. Stomps lower to skulks. They feel my eyes on them. Sometimes I flicker their flashlights. After a few moments, they always run for the door— which I lock. Once they begin to cry, I usually let them go.

Him, though. So quiet I thought he was another ghost at first. He did not yell or disrupt; he took notes, pictures. He reached my office and did not cower. He sat down and told me of my son, his father. When I showed my face, he smiled and waved.

He will come back tomorrow, with family pictures.