Twelve Minutes

September eleventh. The shift ended at a quarter past five and neither of us moved immediately. That is the thing about the break room at the end of a long one, it holds you for a minute before it lets you go. Simone was in the chair across from me. I had a mug. Neither of those facts required elaboration.

I have been thinking, lately, about the specific texture of end-of-shift tired. Not the dramatic kind that makes you want to describe it, the other kind, the flat kind, where your feet have filed their own report and your hands are grateful just to hold something warm. The mug was mostly for ballast. I was not actually drinking it. I do not think Simone noticed, or if she noticed she did not say anything, which is one of the better things about her.

the mug is mostly for ballast. hour eight.

We sat there for something like twelve minutes. I am not certain because I was not watching the time, which is itself unusual. At some point the silence shifted, became slightly more awake, and I looked up and Simone was already looking across at me with the expression she gets that is not quite a smile and not quite nothing. I do not know who broke it. One of us said something small and forgettable and the twelve minutes closed.

the silence broke at some point. neither of us noticed when.

The prints are still against the kitchen wall when I got home. I noticed that. I noticed the window light had moved since morning. I made something for dinner that I did not photograph. The mug is in the drying rack. The shift has filed its report and I am, apparently, fine.