Drafty

The air in the breakroom is thick

like I’m breathing through a sweater.

Nobody looked up from their phones.

I dropped my plastic spoon.

It hit the floor and rattled there,

vibrating on the white linoleum

until it settled into the quiet.

The microwave door is a dark mirror.

I can see my own face

hanging in the glass,

grey and heavy and unwanted.

They are waiting for me to leave

so they can start talking again.