Coffee time rounded the corner. Unfurling for exit tomb stage left, smooth out coral petals and black strings, pretend to care where you are, or who you were talking with, convincing smile but teeth are a no show, fetch the pot like a good little dog, like the other one, like they all do, and go back and play your deaf-boy game. Break a leg. This will mend the stitches in time and the gashes in seconds, the knowledge that tonight reminiscing will be abundant.
There was a snug, roomy grave she'd fell into of thought and barely managed to climb out of it. She was walking back over to him even as her coworker kept on talking, talking, questions, questions. It was not so unusual for her to mentally escape when people began to bore her. She knew the routine, just persuade them you were all there. What she didn't expect to see when she filled up his coffee, almost making it overflow, was a message. Was that for her? The emotionless little muse messed up -- showed emotion. Why was he telling her his name?
It took her a while to pick up the pencil, left-handed, sit across from him, glance over his shoulder, and then finally, messily scrawl back: