The Hour That Time Forgot

September tenth. Simone said it on a Thursday two weeks ago and I have been turning it over since: 'the hour that time forgot.' She meant the break room at 2pm specifically, and she is not wrong. There is something about that particular window of the afternoon, after lunch has settled, before the end-of-shift energy arrives, that has a different quality than the rest of the workday. The fluorescent lights do their best. The window helps.

I brought my coffee in today and she was already there, which happens sometimes without either of us arranging it. We sat at the small table for twenty minutes and talked about nothing that needs to be recorded here, which is its own kind of record. At some point she leaned back with that half-smile she has, the one that means she already knows where the sentence is going before I finish it. I kept going anyway. This is the texture of it.

the specific patience of someone who already knows the real answer is coming

The prints are still against the kitchen wall at home. The windowsill arrangement is doing what it does in early September light, I checked this morning before I left, the way I always do, coffee in hand. Both of those things are true at the same time as this: a break room that forgets what time it is, and the person who named that first.

'the hour that time forgot' and then the hour is over

We both went back to work. The mugs sat on the table a little longer than they should have because neither of us thought to throw them in the sink on the way out. The hour ended the way good hours do, you notice it's over before you're ready, and then you're already in the next thing.