shiny objects break moldy stride

The key is to walk into work and turn loud music on. Not so loud as to call attention to yourself, but loud enough to drown out the copier and mélange of voices passing and shifting electrons in the hallway outside your door which you leave open sometimes now because it gets rather warm in your office and, for Pete’s sake, the air is damn hot and moist lately. The key is copper new, and your hearing is more astute than yesterday.

This coffee looks good, said the lady in the pink tweed. She carried a brown paper bag. I assume it was lunch. But it could've been a gun or a vibrator. That’s the boon of the brown paper bag. If not lunch, then I’d bank on the latter for this woman.

I saw her as I was pulling into the parking lot, walking like a human being and not like a manufactured office zombie. Easy swing in each leg, face muscles long-time freed, bag swaying in and out of step. She looked like she knew work as only a small component of bigger life, like she knew there was fun to be had on the outside, and like maybe she’d had a good night last night.

Because I walk like I’m on speed, I parked and passed her on the way to the building. I clocked in and walked back to the café, and she came in behind me. I ordered a medium coffee.

Aside: I’d begun The Experiment in May. Small coffee instead of a medium coffee. I informed the café employees of the new regime. This week, however, is a medium week. Ask for no explanation. You’ll get none.

Then she ordered a medium coffee.

Aside: In the hospital café, you order the coffee at the register, you pay, the cashier hands you a cup, then you walk across the room to the coffee dispensers, sugars, creams, and various other condiments. This confuses a lot of people, who naturally go right to the source. Coffee first, money the fussy middle-man.

Because I carry two full bags and a cardigan in with me most days, plus keys which I leave out so I don’t have to dig while my hands are full and thus can more quickly escape into my office, I was still gathering my things at the counter while Tweed was paying, and we found ourselves together at the coffee counter. As I tore open packets of sugar, she side-glanced at me and said,

This coffee looks good—

Yeah, it does—I interjected. It did look particularly good this morning. And by look I mean call out like a desirous animal, Drink me—It’s necessary.

If you know what I mean, she finished.

I can’t hear that phrase without thinking sexual innuendo. Sure do, I said.

A moment of silence passed while we put lids on our cups.

Have a good day, she said, nodding.

Thanks, I said, in a stutter. So rare is it I hear such a thing in such swingin’ human tone in the office, I’m usually too stunned to respond reciprocally. You too.

Stay cool, she said. Gave a nod at my body. You look cool.

Immediately I wondered if I’d come to work naked. I get distracted easily by shiny objects, those of lore and those not.