After+Work  

Medline

Fifteen minutes before the end it’s damp in the cool fluorescent light of the office and I feel a pulse behind my eyes— in the next cubicle, Bob Seger and the tapping of magenta nails against the phone, the morse-code-radio-wave warning of an incoming fax, the zipping of leather purses and loosening of designer ties none of us can afford.

The jingle of car keys.

And Susan, from accounting— we all know Susan from the technological silence of her space— Susan there, by the window, cell phone held to her ear, one finger plugging the other, her back turned.

With speakerphone engaged, we even moreso—

A crackle. A cough. The words: //Well, she won’t be home until late.// //We got my place for at least a couple hours.//

A shudder. Another staring. A chuckle. A giddy whisper. The fax machine again.

And Susan there, framed against the glass, the outside, her shoulders loosening, a smile spreading, the slanting, solemn columns of late afternoon light.