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Lunch Hour

Brian Douglas Moakley

    Nancy’s coworkers extended the cake to her like a sacrificial virgin. She was expected to be happy by their consideration. Danielle had bought it. John had found the candles in lunchroom. The others had filled out her card with careful penmanship, wishing her a bright and prosperous year. Her boss stood in the crook of the room. He watched her with a calculating grin.
    And so Nancy blew. The candles extinguished. The smoke wafted towards the ceiling. They clapped in stutters.
    She blinked back a deluge.
    Not now, she thought. Not in front of them.
    Nancy pushed a knife into the depths of the celebratory bread and sugar. Danielle tried to take it from her, but Nancy waved her off.
    “It’s my birthday. I do the cutting.”
    She needed something to do. Something to keep the ocean inside her at bay. So she cut with geometric precision. She placed each perfect square on a paper plate as if the piece were a baby being put into an incubator. She adorned the plates with a matching pink spoon.
    She was to have the first piece. The cornerstone. She held it in a loose grip as she leaned against the back of her desk. She took a bite with all eyes on her. The frosting clung to the roof of her mouth. She scooped it out with her tongue, making a strange puckered face in the process.
    “Looks like Nancy is going back to margaritaville.”
    She produced an empty smile amongst the stray giggles, hiding a flash of irritation. For just a moment, she hated all them and then felt nothing.
    Her spoon fell between loose fingers. It stuck to the floor, embracing the dirt, hairs, a stray nail clipping. A bath of discarded organics.
    “Damn it,” she spat.
    John muttered something about the “five second rule”, and the small room chortled once again. Nancy reached down. Her index finger ran across the back of the plastic spoon. Curved. Flawless. Cold. The cheek of a dead baby.
    She bled a tear. A small bead. She didn’t notice it. It rolled down her face, prompting her boss to lose his smile. His appetite. He turned to his office. Shut the door.
    She paused. She raised her eyes to them. Danielle held her mouth. The tips of her nails withheld her tongue. John shifted to and fro as if he were wrestling with gas. The others trickled from her vantage.
    “Happy Birthday,” John muttered. He turned. His unfinished cake abandoned.
    Danielle looked from her. Turned. Turned back.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
    “Go,” Nancy said. Danielle went.
    The remaining dissected cake reflected the silent flickering of the fluorescent lights. It had lost all value. Lunch hour was concluded.



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