Sly

We sit around a round wooden table, punching away at our laptops. We wear serious looks and thick glasses. We nod at each other and make office small talk. “The invoice copies look fine.” “The printer never works”

Behind our screens, we walk through our own worlds, comfort zones in frigid emotionless rooms.
We stop and look at short stories and music forums. We make lists. I doodle online, words and disconnected sentences. There is something cathartic about writing things without wondering where it’s going.

Someone comes with a jug of iced water and tea. The tea is set on little lacy coasters in cups with golden rims. People resume making small talk over tea. We enquire about the files and excel sheets. We sympathise about technology failing us.

After the tea is consumed, we go back to our worlds, pretending that we are doing extremely important office work, of course.

Next to me, I feel someone smiling into their laptops. I look from the corner of my eye and see a page on Thomas Moore’s poetry open.

The day comes to an end and we all wrap up our things. We bid each other good-bye, hands raised solemnly. A productive day, we say, a productive day.