The Temperature of Morning

Just before the elevator doors closed, someone slipped a hand between them. I met the eyes of a man catching his breath lightly, as if to say he wasn't late. It's the moment a strange solidarity forms between people who have never once commuted together. The office was still dark. When I flipped the switch, the fluorescent lights came on with a hoarse voice, and the sound of the kettle beginning to boil was the only conversation. Outside it's bright, but indoors still feels half asleep. The monitor on the desk wakes up, and I sigh at the water stain left in the cup from yesterday. But somehow today, that breath wasn't a long one. Sunlight from the window was lighting a single speck of dust on the laptop.