Palms and Promises

I press my palm against the cold glass of the breakroom window, watching rain streak down like tears I won't allow myself to shed. The spinach in my Tupperware has wilted into a sorry green mass, mocking my attempt at self-improvement. Next to it sits the vitamin D supplement my doctor insisted I take—something about winter in Seattle and seasonal affective disorder, as if a pill could fix the hollowness expanding inside me.

The water cooler hums in the corner, its bubbles rising and falling in a rhythm that's almost comforting. I shouldn't be thinking about Marcus's hair—how it catches the fluorescent lights when he laughs, how a stray curl fell across his forehead during yesterday's meeting, making me forget my own name. He's married. He's my boss. And I'm standing here at 4 PM on a Tuesday, imagining scenarios that exist only in my desperate imagination.

"Do you always stare at your lunch like it personally offended you?"

I jump. Marcus stands in the doorway, two mugs in his hands. The hum of the building's ventilation seems to pause.

"Just contemplating my life choices," I say, gesturing at the sad spinach. "And apparently losing the ability to be startled gracefully."

He laughs—that sound that makes my chest tighten—and sets a mug beside my Tupperware. "Green tea. For the vitamin D deficiency you're probably not treating properly."

I blink. "How did you—"

"We had lunch with the team last week. You mentioned it." He leans against the counter, close enough that I can smell coffee and something distinctly him. "Also, you look like someone who needs more sunlight and more joy. Possibly in that order."

The words hang between us, heavy with possibility. I glance at his left hand. The ring. The barrier.

"You're married," I say, because stating the obvious feels safer than whatever this moment is becoming.

"Her name was Katherine," he says finally. "She died two years ago today."

The silence returns, different now. Weighted with something that isn't possibility, but something else entirely.

"I wear the ring because..." He trails off. "Because taking it off feels like admitting she's really gone."

I look at his hair—that curl, still fallen across his forehead—and at the spinach, and at my own palm pressed against glass, imprinting itself there like all the things I can't say.

"Green tea," he says again, softer. "And maybe actual food instead of whatever that is." He steps toward the door. "I'll be in my office if you want to talk about things that matter."

The door clicks shut. My spinach sits condemned. Outside, rain keeps falling, but the glass against my palm has warmed.