The printer jammed three
times before she noticed
she hadn't been
speaking.
It had been hours since
the office settled into
its after-lunch hum, and
Mara was still at her
desk, still moving paper
from one tray to
another, still nodding at
the hum like it was a
question she had agreed
to answer long ago.
She looked down at her
hands. They were doing
fine. They always did
fine. They moved the
paper, signed the page,
clicked the mouse.
Somewhere above her, the
ceiling fan kept turning.
She tried to remember if
there had been a sound
she had been waiting for
— a knock, a name, a
single sentence that would
make the day mean
something. There wasn't.
There was just the weight
of staying, which is not
the same as being
present, only quieter.
When she finally stood
up, her chair kept the
shape of her for a
moment, as if the room
had been taking notes.
She walked to the
window. Outside, someone
was laughing in the
parking lot. Not at
her. Not for her. Just
laughing.
It was, she thought,
the first real thing she
had heard all day.