carafe

The stained, white carafe sits undisturbed on the board room conference table. The coffee’s gone cold. On the ceiling, there is a petulant hum and flicker of a florescent light that will not quit. It’s the only working bulb, and barely working at that. In the corners, there are faint outlines of cobwebs. A sheen of dust covers the table where files, dead laptops, pens, and coffee cups have remained stock-still and immortalized in their stillness. What was it Isaac Newton said? Surely, the inverse must be true. This abandoned office space must tell a story. Well-upholstered swivel chairs look as though they have been hastily pushed away; They remain there, cockeyed. The bulb in the EXIT sign has burned out. What emergency could have garnered this? The room smells of dirt and the fading stench of sour milk. Where are the ghosts of these office workers? Does anyone remember them? A stray thought painting a picture; Just one stroke could make all the others come to life. Sixteen festive birthday candles burned down to the frosting on a cake that still sits in the lunch room, the shape of it still intact. The scene must’ve been loud at the time. Complete with singing and applause. Maybe a gift card or two. Simple innocence ripped away with no time to blow out the candles? The dolly track of this camera backing up and outward so we may not touch this scene, but leave it rest so others may ask questions of what happened here. Dark grey cubicle farms like Stonehenge laying in wait. Outside it is grey, foggy, overcast, misting. Mysterious aura that has lasted every since. Time stopped, in a way. Where is the door to the other dimension?

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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