Free The Cubicle Next Door by Siri L. Mitchell

don’t mind.”
    I glanced at the computer clock. It was already quarter to five. “What time do they close?”
    “Five thirty.”
    “Let’s go.” I saved everything and then logged off the network. “Did you log off?”
    “Nope. It’ll do it for me in…what? Twenty minutes?”
    “You can never be too careful.”
    “Or too anal. How about this? I’ll do the lazy man’s log off.”
    I walked around the cubicle wall just in time to see him turn off the power to his monitor.
    “Positive points for energy conservation. Negative points for poor security.”
    “That’s me. An all-around well-balanced kind of guy.”
    I could think of a couple of other descriptions for him.
    Joe folded himself into my car and then turned on the radio. “What is this? NPR?” He sent the dial off in the other direction before I could respond. Tuned into a song wailing about some paradise city. Started singing along.
    I glanced over at him.
    He was concentrating on playing an air guitar; concentrating so hard his eyes were shut tight from the extraordinary effort it must have required. He popped an eye open. “Why aren’t you singing? This is a classic.”
    “I don’t know this one.” Or any other “classic” song for that matter. How do you fit in with your peers when you don’t have a mother? There’s a whole generation of influence missing in your life. At home, there’s not a generation gap, there’s a chasm. A gaping canyon that can never be spanned. Classic rock to my friends had been ’50s music. Classic rock to Grandmother was something that has yet to be invented. Swing is as down as she gets. Glenn Miller is her favorite.
    We sped down the interstate, just ahead of rush hour traffic, and made it to the dealership in about 20 minutes.
    Joe hopped out of the car and went inside to the office.
    I turned the radio back to NPR.
    A minute later he stepped out of the door and gave me a wave. My signal to leave.
    I rolled up to the garage about 15 minutes later.
    Got out to push up the door.
    As I got in the car and shut the car door, I was assaulted by the scent of Joe. A familiar scent that immediately brought to mind our cubicle.
    I recognized the slightest hint of lavender. A suggestion of fir. Something powerful and…masculine. And something else. Some underlying note. Of cleanliness.
    Something clean.
    And pure.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
    What’s wrong with me?
    I’m worse than a shark.
    I can smell your cologne from 100 yards away.
    And it lingers in my senses, long after you are gone. Lingers in your cubicle like a forlorn ghost.
    Posted on June 22 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
    Comments
    Maybe you’re allergic to colognes and perfumes.
    Posted by: justluvmyjob | June 23 at 01:52 AM
    Sounds like maybe those cubicle walls are blocking the circulation of air through the office. Is there a window you could open or something?
    Posted by: megluvsphysics | June 23 at 05:31 PM
    Are you sure it’s not lingering in your heart?
    Posted by: philosophie | June 23 at 11:27 PM

Eight
     
    T he next day Joe came into work with a request. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Do you go to church?”
    “Hypothetically.”
    There was silence, a rolling of wheels across his floor mat, and then a grunt as they hit the resistance of the carpet. Next, the sound of papers being shoved across a desk. A moment later his head appeared above the wall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I haven’t found one yet.”
    “And you’ve been here…?”
    “Ten years.”
    “I thought you’d lived here all your life.”
    “The church I went to before college was great. But when I came back, after Grandmother broke her hip, it had gone weirdo.”
    “Where’d you go to school?”
    “East Coast. MIT.”
    “I had a roommate named Tim once who loved MIT T-shirts. Whenever he looked in a mirror, it said ‘TIM.’”
    “I suppose it’s better than wearing a University of Portland T-shirt.”
    He snickered.