8:06 AM: You came in late, and I wonder if you realize it's the third Thursday in a row you've worn the same green shirt.
8:12 AM: I listen as your computer boots up, and I load the GroupWise schedule to view your calendar for the third time this morning.
9:23 AM: I hear a rustle in your cubical as you exit your office chair; my cue to refill my water bottle. As we pass in the hall you greet me, and I mention the Brewer's game, hoping to prolong the conversation.
11:28 AM: I hear the bottom drawer open as you reach for your jacket. I abruptly hang up on a business call and anticipate an invitation to lunch, but you head to the China Buffet without me.
1:23 PM: I enter the Marketing Conference late, pulling up a chair next to yours. The Axe Affect is overwhelming and I take you in like a load of warm towels, fresh from the dryer.
2:56 PM: Your extension blurts half a ring, and my stomach sinks as you whisper your evening plans to her.
3:34 PM: New Mail: Did you know the Virginia Tech shooter was a Creative Writing major? You tease me about writing poems of rainbows and puppy dogs. I'd never tell you that you're my recurring subject.
4:03 PM: The last office has been deserted, and the two of us are left with the middle-ages woman who fills the soap dispensers.
4:12 PM: I print miscellaneous documents, stand at the printer too long pretending to review them. You ask if it's work related.
4:32 PM: In unison we shut down our computers, as I imagine us turning of the lamps on our nightstands. When we head to the parking lot I slow down to be next to you in the exiting traffic.
4:40 PM: We both turn left onto JJ, and I follow you into Oshkosh for the next twenty minuets, to a "doctors appointment" I never had.
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