Office Hours

Veronica

He walks in around 8:30 a.m. every morning. 

I know this because I stare at the tiny numbers on the bottom right-hand corner of my computer screen, counting down the minutes until those three numbers read: eight, three, zero. I hide behind two large monitors as I watch him walk from one end of the room to the other, eyes on his phone, backpack resting high on his shoulders, and lunch sack in the other hand.

This is his daily routine. And mine.

He has yet to discover anyone, especially me—cowering behind the glowing blue lights of my monitors—watches his every step toward his desk, noting how his hair falls flat, still burdened with wetness from his morning shower, or how his shoulders slightly slump, still bogged down by what I imagine was a restless night. These minute details never escape me, if only because I’m desperate to know why he looks so tired. Whether it’s because he was up all night doing something others might envy or whether it’s something far more meaningful, like a pain plaguing his soul to the point of insomnia.

I certainly hope he’s not suffering. I’d much rather think he was partying late into the evening and having the time of his life. We’re at the age for that sort of behavior, even on weeknights.

He places his belongings on his desk and goes through the motions of setting up his workspace—powering on the computer, plugging in the charger, putting his bag in the cabinet, and retrieving his coffee mug. This is what he does every morning. Next, he’ll drag his feet to the break room to fill his mug with the day’s first and only cup of coffee.

He switches to tea after that.

Merely by coincidence, I prefer to refill my coffee mug at this time, too.

Since I arrive approximately an hour before him, it’s about that time I need a refill. It’s mainly for a morning pick-me-up, as I’ve exerted all of the energy the first cup gave me anxiously waiting for everyone else to get into the office.

It’s not that I’m obsessed with his arrival. It’s that his presence fills me with a sense of unexplainable excitement. It makes this bland, overly sterile, and white office building feel like there’s something interesting happening. It’s like he alone adds color to the dreary, stereotypical office space. Like he’s some abstract art piece filling the entire wall lining our floor—a work of art that you can’t look away from without feeling a little empty inside.

As he turns the corner into the breakroom, I stand. A growing sense of anticipation and unease settles into me as I approach the only neutral zone I could coincidentally stand in at the same time as him.

It’s like we haven’t done this dance for countless months. Butterflies fill my stomach every time I’m near him. And as I walk into the breakroom, seeing only one other person present, those butterflies still, waiting patiently, debating whether this will be the day we share more than a courteous Good Morning.

The unwelcome third presence is standing at the sink, washing their cup. They offer me a nod, which I return. I don’t know their name, but I do know they sit on the other side of the hall with a group of engineers who typically keep to themselves. We don’t bother with introductions; we never have, probably because they’re shy, and my focus is solely on the other person in this room—him.

Despite us never having introduced ourselves either, I know his name: Thomas. I know other important things about him that a stranger shouldn’t know, but it’s not my fault his desks sits in my peripheral vision. When giving myself a brain break, I often find my eyes veering to the side. Thomas can be so distracting when his brows crinkle as he leans toward his monitor, focusing on something challenging. I admire a man who works hard.

We’ve never locked eyes across the room, but I imagine he sees me, too.

The other man leaves the breakroom, leaving me standing awkwardly behind Thomas. He’s selecting his usual double espresso cappuccino, full-fat milk included, from the automated coffee maker. Milk gives me a stomach ache and a required bathroom visit from hell. Although our coffee orders don’t align, I’m convinced morning beverages have nothing to do with compatibility.

Thomas turns around, holding a steamy hot beverage with both hands, letting the ceramic mug warm them. I’m momentarily thrown off by the sheer size of his hands, covering nearly the entire design scattered across the mug. It’s the logo of his college, the University of California Los Angeles. I only know because I’ve seen it a hundred times, but today, only the ears of the bruin on the vintage logo are visible.

Thomas smiles at me.

Again, I’m taken aback. The way his lip tilts slightly with no teeth exposed is so seductive it shouldn’t be allowed in the workplace. They should make a rule about it.

“Excuse me,” he says.

Our eyes lock in a moment so fleeting that the butterflies in my stomach take flight, forcing a gurgling laugh out of my mouth. Not quite a giggle, which might have been worse. “Sorry,” I manage to say eventually, stepping aside.

Thomas walks past me, politely not mentioning my blunder. I curse under my breath as I forcefully tap the coffee maker screen for an Americano. God forbid I hoped for something other than a simple Good Morning. Right now, I could die for a simple “Good Morning.” Good morning is a thousand times better and less memorable than the sound that just escaped me.

“Looks like we’re out of syrup again. I swear those guys in engineering guzzle this stuff,” he says.

Is he trying to make me feel better? If so, I could kiss his feet for the save. I knew he would be a kind person.

I turn to respond, taking a deep inhale, settling my nerves. “Rob, who sits by me, keeps a bottle at his desk. He’s very specific about the flavor he likes and doesn’t usually share, but you can tell him I sent you.” The light in my soul glows with this rebuttable. I struggle to believe how smoothly the reply comes out.

Thomas smiles, pleased with the offer. “Nice. I’ll let him know. Thanks,” he says, pivoting on his heel and sauntering out of the room.

The coffee machine sputters behind me, trickling the last bits of bitter coffee into my hot pink mug with the words Lady Boss scrawled across it in bold sans-script lettering. I am not a Lady Boss, but my mother, who gifted me the mug, thought I’d love it. I’m still unsure if she was trying to be funny or motivating. I don’t love it, but it’s useful. Its extra-large capacity and oblong handle make it the perfect mug.

By the time I return to my desk, Thomas is seated at his. He raises his mug to me in a silent salute of thanks for giving him the information on where to find more coffee syrup. I raise my mug to him, feeling my cheeks crinkle and tighten.

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone I keep a bottle of that expensive ass syrup at my desk,” Rob says accusatorily.

I turn toward his cubicle, which sits directly next to mine. A short divider is the only thing separating our desks; if standing, we have an unrestricted view of each others’ area. If we roll our chairs back about two feet, we are in the “safety zone”—a place neither of us can claim as ours or kick the other out of because, technically, there is no wall designating who owns the area. This leaves me the tiniest bit of personal space, and I’m confident Rob loves infringing on my solitude daily.

“You didn’t even pay for it. You stole it from the breakroom and guard it like a treasure dragon,” I retort.

He shrugs. “Workplace perks. It’s not my fault that other people haven’t thought of doing the same. I’m consuming no more or less than I would be if I used the common room’s shared resources.”

“It’s the principle of it all. Since we’re out, you should return that bottle so other people can consume it until they restock the break room.”

“Here’s the thing, Ronnie. My whole bottle will be gone, and they’ll only restock one more in there. So then I’ve got to take the new bottle, leaving everyone else with nothing. That’s a lose-lose situation. Everyone is better off if I keep my secret bottle and let the others wait for the restock.” Rob stands tall, proud of his defensive argument.

“Your justification is utter nonsense and selfish,” I say, plopping down in my desk chair. I spin away from Rob. He’s constantly trying to distract himself from work and, with that, distracting me. However, now that I’ve successfully maneuvered a morning greeting with Thomas, I’m feeling energized to knock out some work and power through the day. By 5:00 pm, I plan on leaving at the same time as Thomas today.

Rob leans against the short wall divider, watching me type in my password to unlock the computer. “Can you not?” I say, but I’ve already punched the ENTER button.

“You should really come up with a better password. Anyone who knows anything about you could guess that. And I really hope you aren’t using it for every one of your other passwords, like the old timers do. That’s how you get hacked,” he says.

I open my inbox and scroll down to the oldest unread emails. Clients are already sending in questions, issues, requests, and a myriad of other shit that I’ll be expected to solve or answer today as their designated Lady Bitch, far from a Lady Boss. “Thanks for the advice, Robert. If I’m ever hacked, you’ll be my first suspect,” I say, shooing him away.

He smiles devilishly but steps back. Before he sits, he adds, “Who’s to say I haven’t already, Ronnie?”

“Get to work, Robbie,” I add, knowing he hates the nickname as much as I hate the one he’s given me.

Rob’s been my co-worker and kind of friend for over a year now. He loves to tease me, but his idle threats don’t carry any weight. He smokes too much weed—I know firsthand as his usual smoking partner—to be that ambitious.