Sandra Gomes shut down her computer every workday at 5:30pm. Precisely. Never a moment sooner, and rarely a moment later, if she could help it. She would begin to clean up her desk, including her computer, at about twenty minutes after five and then watch the clock in the bottom right of her computer screen as it counted down. After the papers on her desk were shuffled into neat piles for the next day, she would close down all her open programs, and even though Randy, the computer guy at Humphries & McDougal, said that she did not have to shut down her computer each night, she preferred doing it. “I like to give it time to rest,” she told Randy, as if her machine, beneath the wires and bars of memory, was secretly a laboratory animal that needed a breather before the next day’s obstacle courses and mazes. “Suit yourself,” Randy had said with an uncommitted smile, the day that he upgraded her software. Sandra readied her things at the close of each business day, so that the following morning would be more manageable, at least visually. The office would officially be closed at 5:30pm and any phone calls that came in after that time would be considered “after hours” and would go straight into the voicemail system. As her computer shut down and the monitor shown black, she would grab her purse and be out the entrance door and in front of the elevator bank by 5:35pm. Once on the street, it was just a block to the underground subway station, and if the trains were running in her favor, she could be in her living room each night by ten minutes after six. There was an order to this part of her day that Sandra took great comfort in. The nights were hers and she liked to count on knowing when they would start and that they were all hers.
It was just after she began working for Humphries & McDougal in Suite 630 that she noticed the young receptionist who worked across the hall, in Suite 620. The woman was no older than herself. Sandra would have no way of knowing this, but the woman was exactly the same age as she was. The two women had never met each other. Never a head nod or even a wave. They never spoke or caught the other’s eye at the same time. Once, Sandra thought about walking across the hall, pushing open those glass doors and introducing herself. But she soon dismissed it as inconsequential. Besides, what would they have to say to each other?
It happened one evening, after a long day, when Sandra was putting on her coat at exactly 5:39 pm. She looked up and through the two panes of glass, the angle of the hallway and the glare afforded by the distance between the two suites, Sandra saw the young receptionist putting her coat on too. It was if Sandra was looking in a mirror, far away. They both stopped when they sensed the others’ eyes falling on their movements. But only for a moment, long enough to realize that the other was indeed looking and then, instantly, the two resumed getting ready to leave, their jackets shimmying the rest of the way over their shoulders. Sandra grabbed her purse and headed out for the elevators, expecting to see the young receptionist waiting as well. The floor was empty. Sandra pushed the down button and was disappointed at being the lone rider the entire trip down the six flights to the lobby.
The following Monday, it happened again — mirrored movement from across the hall. The young receptionist rose from the desk, walked to the entrance and wiped a large smudge from the front glass with a large white cloth at the very moment Sandra held a paper towel in her hand, and was making her way to the front door to do the very same thing. When she realized the coincidence, Sandra wheeled on her heels and moved back behind her desk. It gave Sandra the chills.
When Sandra went home that night, she could not stop thinking about the young receptionist. She did not know anything about the woman, not her name — one Angela Holmes, though she would never find that out — or anything about her. She only knew that the young receptionist worked for a company called APAC International that was located in the same building, on the same floor, across the hall, in the sequential suite from her company. The suites looked to be the same size, set up in similar fashion. It seemed like APAC was roughly the same size as her company, Sandra thought — and she was right, at maybe 30 people or so. She never got a good look at the young receptionist’s face, however, as it was hard to see from that distance and through the glass. But she could see enough, just a glimpse that ignited the heated desert of curiosity. What was her name, she wondered. What was her story? What brought her to APAC? Was she from the city? The suburbs? Was she married? Have kids? Did she have sisters or brothers? Who was she? Who was this young woman? What hobbies did she like to do more than anything else? What kept her mind racing and did not allow her to sleep?
For the next several days, between the emails and the monthly billing, Sandra watched the young receptionist, her eyes darting around in an effort to keep up with the movements of Angela Holmes. She kept looking out of the corner of her eye, watching as she typed on her computer, talked to the UPS guy or the pasty man in a white shirt and red tie, trying to keep her within view, which was easy enough to do since they both seemed to be at the desk at the same times. She never went to lunch or disappeared too long. At least not that Sandra saw. She had never noticed that before — how much she could see from her desk, how easily she could follow this young receptionist from across the hall. Something made her feel uneasy though. It was odd to be drawn to this unassuming woman, a person she did not know at all. Sandra would stop herself, run her fingers through her hair, and force herself to concentrate solely on her computer screen. She felt like a stalker, but she reasoned to herself that she wasn’t harming anyone by just watching. She did it from the safety of her desk, after all, at her job, ducking behind her computer, trying to not be noticed. She was a detective, she deduced, she was more like a detective than a stalker — following someone to gain information, to look for clues in which to unwrap a mystery. A personal mystery. Just call her Detective Sergeant Gomes.
There were times when Angela Holmes would suddenly disappear — “where did she go?” Sandra would whisper to herself — just before Sandra was to go to lunch or run an errand or step away from her desk for any length of time. Maybe she was going to lunch too, or running an errand at the same time. They seemed to be on a similar rhythm, Sandra had surmised, which of course, was a silly conclusion. Most people working in an office hold similar daily patterns, and do things, similar things, at roughly the same time. It is the way the workday is set up and it follows the way human beings are wired to function within that set structure. It made perfect sense if you were to think about it, which Sandra did. It was silly to think such thoughts, she reminded herself. The young receptionist had started working at the front desk, and doing her set pattern of movements, just two days before Sandra got her job, which was almost six months ago. Sandra, of course, did not know that. Angela had been doing the same things, coming and going at the same time, for as long as Sandra had been working and yet, she had never noticed before. As she stirred a small pan with noodles, she vowed to forget about the woman, to forget about their mirrored movements, never think about the similar patterns again.
When Sandra set her bag on the floor the next morning, against the filing cabinet, she turned quickly towards suite 620. A new thought hit her: what if the woman, this young receptionist, was following Sandra with her eyes? For if Sandra could see her and watch her, surely she could do the same in reverse. What if the young receptionist was watching Sandra? What if she was having the same kinds of thoughts? What if it was Sandra who was the suspected criminal? What if Sandra was the one who was being stalked?
That day, Sandra sat at her desk and tried to look busy but wanted only to look across the hall and watch the silent movie being played out in front of her. Sandra did not catch the young receptionist’s eye, and quickly looked to her monitor the split second she feared any such eye contact. She could not take her eyes of office across the hall and searched desperately for any potential clues. She watched her and that was all she wanted to do. She put off any work that she could. If a project wasn’t due that day, it could wait for her attention until the next day. The young receptionist sat at her desk, typed at the computer, talked on the phone, reached down to file something in her cabinet drawer, she would get up and walk out of the frame and then come back in, people walked by, some stopped for a second or two, most did not. It was fascinating to watch, even without sound, as silent as her own imagination. Every once in a while someone would walk straight towards her and through the double glass doors, almost as if they were headed her way but once they were in the hallway, they would turn either right or left – towards the elevators or down the hall to the bathrooms. Sandra tried to look deeper — was the young receptionist watching Sandra in return?
Sandra thought about the young receptionist all weekend, and actually looked forward to work on Monday morning, anxious to detect any new developments, to follow the woman who moved with steps similar to her own. When she went out with her boyfriend Daniel on Saturday night, she felt as if she were betraying his affections by thinking nonstop of a woman she did not know.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his chopsticks open, poised over a roll of vegetable maki.
“What?” She looked to him, a puzzled look in her eyes, as if he had just sat down at the table. Had he been sitting there the whole time?
“You seem distracted, like you are thinking of something. You seem far away. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” Sandra did not answer right away, she did not know what to say. How could she tell him what she was obsessing about – really, it was about nothing. She could not begin to tell Daniel how her mind, her every waking hour, had been filled with another woman’s movements. Nothing more than that. Just movements. Nothing happened, there was not even a story to tell. She could not tell him that, he would think she was crazy, which may not be far from the truth. Sandra said nothing and Daniel’s mind raced with thoughts of something more. This had happened before in his last relationship, just over a year ago, with a girl named Katie – she dumped him for her boss at work. No warning. Just a quick talk one night on his couch. She left and he sat on the couch for eight straight days. The thought of it happening again made him sick and he set down his chopsticks.
“Did something happen at work?” he asked, almost fearful of her answer.
“Yeah. No. No, I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. She closed her eyes and silently, she corrected her assessment, No, actually, I’m not fine. I am losing my mind. I cannot stop thinking about a woman I don’t even know, a woman I know nothing about. I think about her all the time and don’t even know what I am thinking about. Am I crazy? Am I gay? Am I falling in love with a woman? Have I lost my mind? Sandra did not say anything more, but merely smiled and asked Daniel about his week ahead at work.
When Daniel dropped her off at her apartment, he did not ask to spend the night, as he always did. He kissed her goodnight and told her he would call her tomorrow. He was not sure he actually would, and as he walked back to his car, he admitted that she probably wouldn’t even notice if he did or not.
When Sandra got off the elevator on Monday morning, fear poured over her like a downpour. She stood in the hallway, her eyes fixed on the texture of the carpeting that led her way, suddenly afraid to pass by APAC International on her way to Humphries & McDougal. She walked slowly, breathing deeply, vowing not to look into any suites that lined the sixth floor. How could she spend another day like she had spent the last several? She didn’t think she had the strength. She had not been doing her work, she was not eating well, and her mind had been constantly filled with thoughts of the young receptionist. It felt like worry — what she was feeling? — yet more of a dreadful, fateful feeling. She started to feel nauseous, as she walked through the front door of her suite.
She went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and saw Randy as he dipped a tea bag in and out of a cup of hot water, and back in again.
“Hey Randy.”
“Hola Sandra. How goes it, chica?”
Sandra smiled, and grabbed a white cup from the counter and pushed down on the plastic pump on the top of the coffee carafe. She had forgotten to look in the cup to make sure it was clean – the dishwasher at Humphries & McDougal was spotty, at best. Randy held his wet tea bag with two fingers, threw it in the garbage and rubbed his chin, his patchy beard moving around his fingers.
“How was the weekend?” he asked.
“Oh, it was okay. How was yours?”
“It was okay. Not long enough, that’s for sure” and Randy laughed when he said this, his large belly moved up and down against the counter. His orange and black stripped shirt wiggled with each giggle. Sandra enjoyed this moment away from her desk, a certain sense of freedom and relief, but she quickly became anxious. What if she was needed? What if something happened across the hall or at her desk? She smiled and walked out of the kitchen, with Randy following.
As Sandra turned to go to her desk, Randy kept walking towards his cube, and it was then that she looked across the hall to see the young receptionist come into view. She could see a heavyset man, with a stripped shirt and a scraggly beard just like Randy’s, walk behind her just seconds after Randy had done the very same thing.
Sandra set her coffee cup on her desk and sat down. The grey walls seemed to move in on her, their rubbery texture pulsating like sweaty skin. Sandra could feel the perspiration bubble on her forehead, her tongue dry, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She grabbed her purse and stood up, hesitated in front of her desk, and then reached around and put her purse back near her chair and ran through the glass doors and down the hall, past APAC International, past the empty reception desk inside. The sweat poured down her cheeks, her dark hair pressed against her temples. With two fingers, she pressed the elevator down button. She pressed it again, two, three, four times. “C’mon, c’mon,” she said, trying to breathe, to calm herself down. She could hear the elevator mechanisms grind slowly below the floor, a distant sound that eventually began to rise. “Oh come on,” she said.
“Oh hi,” a voice behind her said.
Sandra turned and saw the two violet eyes of Angela Holmes. Sandra could not make out who she was at first, though it took no further thought to realize the face that had suddenly appeared in front of hers was as familiar as her own.
“I just quit my job,” she said with a half smile. “I didn’t plan to. Isn’t that weird? I just quit. On the spot. “ Angela curled the straps of her purse over her shoulder and looked at the elevator doors. “Just grabbed my things and left. I am not even sure why I did it.” She smiled.
“ I guess I have to call someone and tell them I am not coming back.”
Sandra could tell as she watch the young receptionist that she was of the same height, had the same coloring and wore black flats just like Sandra. She recognized her full lips and the young receptionist wore her hair in a soft side ponytail, just like she did. She turned to look at the elevator doors too.
Sandra could not think of what to say in return but couldn’t help wondering if she had just done the same thing. She had left in a hurry, on the spot, but had she just quit? Without even realizing it? Maybe the young receptionist knew something that Sandra did not. Perhaps so much of their circumstances intersected, that everything was blurry, and in one moment Angela would lead their mirrored movements and in the next moment, the young receptionist did. Perhaps that is all it was – two people dancing but from afar. Were they moving together now? Did Sandra make the first move this time and the young receptionist followed? Or was it the other way around? Wouldn’t she know it if she had just quit, though? Wouldn’t she know it? She shook her head, no, no. She left her purse back there. One doesn’t quit and then leave their purse behind.
“Good luck to you,” Sandra said. “I mean, I am sure it is for the best.”
Angela smiled, “Yeah, I guess,” and she walked into the elevator and the doors closed.
Sandra turned and walked back to Suite 630 and her desk at Humphries & McDougal.
