His Name Is Marcus

July thirteenth.

I was early. This is not unusual, I have a consistent problem with arriving before I need to, which I've made my peace with, mostly by treating the gap as belonging to me rather than to the place I'm waiting to be. The diner next to the restaurant has a counter with four stools and a woman behind it who never seems to be doing anything other than refilling coffee at the exact moment you want more. I have a standing arrangement with that counter that involves sitting at it for fifteen minutes before I clock in and not talking to anyone.

He came in because the coffee at the restaurant is genuinely terrible and he has apparently also discovered the counter. His name is Marcus. I know this because he said 'I'm Marcus' while sliding onto the stool two down from mine, which is not typically how people introduce themselves to coworkers they have been nodding at for the better part of a year and a half, but it was so straightforward that it just landed without ceremony. I said my name back. He said 'I know.' We both drank our coffee.

two mugs. a data point.

I don't have much else to report. Two mugs, one exchange, eighteen months of accumulated hallway hellos finally given a name to attach to. I photographed the mugs because I photograph things now, apparently, in the way that you start doing a thing without noticing you've started doing it, like Wednesday yoga, like reading mail the same day it comes. I don't know what it means. It's probably a data point.

july, before the shift.

He left before I did. I sat for another four minutes and then went to clock in. Gerald doesn't know about any of this. The collapsed bowl on the windowsill remains neutral on the topic.