Our office is a room. Eight researchers in a row. Three facing west, five facing east.

Me at the back, due west. Number One browses kids sneakers. Number Five salivates over pork recipes online.

It is 10:31 AM.

My coffee is lukewarm and tangy.

To my left, a waxy green plant which was brown and crisped at the edges upon my arrival six months ago. My neighbor, Number One, brought plant food. I applied water. It now stretches for our window. 'The building next door blocks your sun. I'm sorry.' I apologize a lot these days. Even for things that don't require an apology.

To my right, massive aluminum file holders. Six in a row, tall and girthy. They ping when you open and close them. They absorb all light, artifical and otherwise.

Talk turns to meatball juices. Something about garlic, "and ooh, cheese. And fatty meat. Not that lean healthy stuff." If I had eaten anything today, I'd hope to throw it up, as if to say, "This puddle represents how disgusted with you I am."

I try to think of why I started writing this.

I look at the goosebumps on my arm. It's August in New York City. The bosses at the front turn on the air conditioner full blast every day. The vents are back here, they are up front with their doors closed. "Man it's hot," they say with a smile, thinking 'Does this count as friendly banter with the employees? Should I inquire about their children?' We are bundled in dark sweaters and cashmere wraps. I pull on your olive wool sweater. I wish I could smell you, and instinctually feel how much I love you, as I'm told smelling has the power to do. Instead I feel the stick of your skin on my neck, and the scratch of your beard on my forehead, because you always pull me that low, so your chin rests on my crown. As if standing over our bed, I picture burrowing my face into that crook in your chest, looping my arm around your warm gut, and legging myself into your sleeping dent. I picture it rather than remember what it feels like because I'd like to see something other than the unkempt backs of heads and airport style carpets, purposely spackled in colors one can only describe as various shades of dirty.

I feel miserable. I feel like sitting in the sun with my eyes closed. I feel like I don't deserve lunch or dinner. It doesn't feel right for me to open my mouth for anything, food and talking least of all. A massive jug of water dwarves my computer screen, dappled with water beads and fingerprints, respectively.

My supervisor tells me I am not detail-oriented. She is pudgy yet boxy, and wears squaring pants with square Korean sandals. She smokes every day at 2 PM, and brushes her teeth at 3. Still, they're yellow with a grey outline.

Back to work.