22 Days

The cough started on a Tuesday—

or earlier. I wasn't tracking.

By week two I'd learned to angle away

toward the window, into my sleeve.

Twenty-two days in, the meeting.

Someone walking through the numbers

and I coughed—kept coughing—

and the water bottle appeared.

Slid across the laminate.

No word. No eye contact.

The condensation ring already forming

before I picked it up.

That's the part.

The ring. That someone had kept it cold,

held it at the right distance

from their elbow.

I drank. Said thank you.

The meeting moved on.

The whole room had been

working around me

for weeks, apparently.

I didn't know.

I still don't know

what to do with knowing.

The cough came back

on the drive home.

Of course.