Late for Work
Last night in quarantine, I dreamed of walking down a hallway
lined with chipped beige Formica desks and plastic chairs like
those in a schoolroom.
I stagger down the hallway, the brown and white swirled
linoleum tile dusty, clutching my laptop under one arm. Where
should I sit. I’m late for something, but what? A work meeting
that began at 8:30 a.m. The clock on the wall with its black hands
points at 8 and 9.
Where should I sit? I pass elementary school-sized desks
with three and four adults sitting at them,
all squished together, their knees and shoulders touching.
They sit too close to each other, ignoring the invisible danger.
I see a desk at the end of the hallway with only one person, a woman whose back faces me. She has curly dark hair and types, hunched over her keyboard. I pause. Do I know her from work? Smudges of purple and blue ink stain the desktop next to her, but it’s the only desk with a free chair. The woman motions to the empty seat. I hesitate. The clock hands move forward, and I have already missed half my meeting. Which is worse, the invisible threat pursuing me or being late to work and losing my job?
#flashinthepandemic
