The Temperature of Lunchtime

On the office desk, steam rises from a coffee cup. Spring sunlight stretches long through the window and falls across the keyboard. She ran her eyes once more over the numbers on the screen. The last line of the estimate she'd been checking all morning. The moment her shoulders relaxed, the warm cup under her fingertips. Someone at the next desk lets out a small sigh. She turns her head at the sound; the assistant manager is tapping a pen on his papers, smiling. She thought she knew what that smile meant. She nodded, too, and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. A bitter scent stayed in her mouth. The sound of cart wheels from the corridor. Lunchtime is approaching. Outside, across the street, the cherry blossoms in the small park are in full bloom. A few petals scatter in the wind and fall to the road. She rose from her seat and walked to the window. Her own reflection in the glass, and behind it, the assistant manager's, too. Two people looking out the window without a word. The steam from the coffee cup grows thinner and thinner. Far off, the lunch bell rings. She returned to her desk and picked up her handbag. The assistant manager rises from his seat and takes his jacket. The two walk side by side into the corridor without a word. At the elevator, the number of the button he pressed lights up, and with a clank, the doors open.