The sun sits at three o’clock, warm and insistent through the office windows. My second coffee sits cold on my desk from an hour ago. My stomach cramps, a sharp, hollow pinch that I try to ignore by focusing on the travel authorizations, and vouchers before me. I tighten my belt a notch, but the ache persists, a reminder of the lunch hour I skipped.
I’ve stamped ‘Approved’ so many times the movement has become a rhythmic, dull tick in my wrist. The screen blurs into a cloud of white and colored dots, their details swimming in and out of focus as the afternoon wears on. Scientists, directors, and other personnel filter through the suite and my inbox for answers to questions and concerns of the day. My blazer hangs over the back of my office chair. I look up at the Monet hanging above where guests usually sit. The air in the suite has turned thick and stagnant. A sticky sheen of sweat pricks at my hairline, and I can feel the synthetic weave of my pantyhose clinging to my skin, chafing with every slight shift in my seat. My heels are kicked off under my desk. The carpet is soft against my pantyhose that don’t feel thin enough for a day like this.
It’s just me and her in the suite now. Earlier, I watched her tie a yellow bandana around her gray hair, pull heavy yellow rubber gloves over her frail wrists, and lug a bucket of bleach water toward the conference room with a soft, determined smile. Sweet of her. I didn’t think much of it then.
I needed a Xerox copy of a travel voucher I had sent to the printer earlier. I stand, my feet settling into the carpet in my stockings, and walk toward the conference room where the scanner lives. The mini fridge hums there too, tucked in the corner.
A sharp pang reverberates in my upper abdomen, bringing with it the phantom memory of pepper jack and mozzarella. Saliva pools beneath my tongue, warm and heavy. I can feel the sharp bite of red pepper flakes against the roof of my mouth, the rich, rubbery tear of the cheese between my teeth, and the cool salt coating my lips.
I push to the conference room. There she is—
Gray stringy hair bent low crouched over the mini fridge. My hand clamps over my mouth, bile rising in my throat. This is her. The same woman who sets out warm glass platters of homemade snickerdoodles on Monday mornings, the sweet, buttery scent of baked cinnamon clinging to her wool cardigans for days after. She’s staring down at an object as if she’s memorizing its anatomy. But then…I don’t see the sponge. I see something else in her hand.
Clear. Plastic.
A syringe. My cheese stick.
My stomach tightens.
The needle disappears between her fingers. The syringe piercing my cheese.
I gasp.
The sound catches in my throat before I can stop it, a sharp intake of breath that feels like a scream I’m swallowing whole.
She doesn’t know I’m here. Not yet.
I step back even further out of view. My pantyhose whisper against the carpet.
I cannot believe she would stoop so low. Yet there she is. She keeps her eyes fixed on the plastic casing, her knuckles white as she guides the needle toward the center of the cheese. The contents of the syringe disappear into the white wax, slow and deliberate.
The refrigerator hums behind her.
I stare at the cheese in her hand.
Thank God something told me to get up. To walk in here and see this.
Because if I hadn’t—
I would never have known.