As the VP of sales gets the meeting started, I put myself on mute and casually roll my chair to the side a few inches so I can reach off camera without being noticed. Then, watching my own little video square—to make sure my actions stay off-screen—I pour my to-go iced coffee out of the disposable cup it came in and into my giant thermos cup. I don’t need my coworkers knowing I blew off half the afternoon shopping and buying lattes.
When the transfer is complete, I slowly lean back and bring the pink straw to my lips. And I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at how good it is.
The boss blathers on, something about the training we’ll be doing soon, but I tune him out. As the head of HR for a global manufacturer, I usually have plenty to do to keep my days busy. But I finished all the paperwork for our newest hire this morning and wanted to treat myself a bit. The nearest Target is fifteen minutes away, and next to my favorite store is BeanBag Coffee, my favorite coffee shop. Stopping there might be the reason I was almost late to this meeting but—I take another sip—totally worth it. And lord knows I need all the caffeine to make it through what is proving to be a tremendously boring meeting.
I unmute myself to agree with what everyone is saying, then mute my microphone again and let my mind wander.
And, of course, my mind wanders straight to the empty glass container sitting on the corner of my little worktable.
I’m tempted to reach out, to run my fingertip along the edge, trace the corner, but I don’t. I keep my hands around my cup.
But I do inhale.
I swear his masculine pine scent clings to the glass.
I noticed the way he smelled the one time I was close enough to detect it. I don’t know if it’s soap or deodorant or a faint cologne, but the memory of it haunts me.
I swear I can smell it at the most random times when I’m in my own home. When I’m nowhere near him.
And I can always smell it when he returns the containers.
The glass is always clean. It’s always on my front step. And it’s always the very next day after I leave it on his. Every time. Every freaking time.
But there’s never a note.
No thank you. No I liked it. No cease and desist. And no Post-it proclaiming what’s inside.
Always the same. Label removed, container squeaky clean.
I don’t even know if he eats what I make.
Does he transfer the cookies into another container? Does he put them right in the garbage?
There’s no way he ate all six of them between last night and this afternoon. Same as the times I’ve dropped off whole loaves of banana or pumpkin bread. So he must be transferring them into something else.
Maybe it’s a respect thing? Like he wants to return my belongings to me as quickly as possible?
I take another long pull through my straw.
I try my hardest to pay attention to the slideshow that just appeared on the screen. Everyone gets so excited about these new product launches, and I appreciate that they want to include me, but really… I don’t care. I’m not sure it’s possible for me to care less.
Human resources is my job, not my passion, and learning about commercial building materials is of zero interest to me. It really is just a job I fell into that I happen to be good at. So… yeah.
I’m swallowing more of my latte when motion outside catches my attention.
Forgetting all about the meeting, I turn my head and watch as Hans pulls his pickup out of his garage.
