The Pause

My boss said my name in the meeting today,

and it landed like something dropped

from a height, like something

waiting for the right moment to fall.

There was a pause before it—

a small hesitation, like she was pulling it

from somewhere cold, somewhere

she'd stored it until she needed it

as a weapon, or just a way

to acknowledge that I existed

without actually looking at me.

Everyone else was talking about

quarterly metrics, revenue streams,

the usual things nobody really cares about.

But when she said my name,

the room got smaller.

Everything narrowed down to that moment,

to that particular way she had

of making my existence feel

like an inconvenience, like a problem

that needed solving.

I said "Yes?" like I didn't know

what she was going to say,

like I hadn't been bracing for it

the moment she opened her mouth.

She didn't actually say anything.

She just moved on, dismissed me

without speaking, left her pause

rattling around in my head—

that hesitation before my name,

that way of making me feel

like I was only here by accident,

like any moment she could remember

why she'd decided I wasn't

worth keeping.