Friday beers
Diego and I have never spoken. We have never met. We have been friends for a decade. hbd!, he’ll write on my Facebook profile. I’ll say nothing back.
—
I hadn’t left the conference room. The lights flicked off — motion sensors. A plane landed across the harbor, livery veiled in dimming summer twilight. I lifted my elbows off my knees and leaned back into the chair. A soft click sounded, and the small room again illuminated.
I had littered the table with a half-dozen half-finished cups of coffee, souvenirs from adventures beyond the conference room.
I had smothered the table with hundreds of glossy pages and marked them up in red pen. Fix logo sizes. Move to appendix. Doesn’t tie with footnote on page 211. Move to appendix. Move to appendix.
It was late enough. I tossed everything.
The elevator doors tapped shut. I leaned against the wall, replaying my last call of the day. A senior partner calling in from his house in Jackson. Any weekend plans? It had been an innocent question. It had even been kind. And I had lied.
The doors slid open. A nod to the security desk. He didn’t look up. Have a great night. You too. I put my headphones on.
Nightlife in the city, such as it was, had returned after many months of pandemic restrictions. Flanked by the gleaming glass-and-steel of prestige real estate, the beer garden hosted patrons with nothing more than plastic cups and cheap fairy lights. Even still, sidewalk traffic narrowed to a trickling single file.
—
I lived on the fifth floor at the time. As I climbed the stairs, I squeezed into the wrought-iron railing to let some new neighbors pass. They wore black leather. ‘Scuse me. Thanks.
Inside the apartment, I kicked off my shoes and tossed my shirt in the corner with the others. I opened the fridge — empty, but for the dregs of a mass-market thirty rack. Dregs would be fine.
I opened my laptop. Move to appendix. Text too long. Add comma when writing thousands. Move to appendix.
A notification caught my eye. hbd! I heard from no one else that year.