Seven

Seven times in forty minutes.

I started counting at three,

which means I missed the first two —

the actual total might have been nine.

She opens the bag,

takes something out or doesn't —

sometimes just opens it,

looks in,

closes it again —

and the sound cuts through

whatever sentence is happening.

There's a pause after.

Not long. Half a beat.

The speaker continues.

Everyone continues.

Nobody looks at the bag.

That's the part I keep thinking about —

the collective decision,

made in real time, every time,

to absorb the sound

and carry on

as if we are all

professionals in a room

where the sound of fabric

separating from itself

is nothing.

Four.

Five.

By six I had stopped hearing

what the meeting was about.

I was just waiting

for the next one.

Seven came in the middle of the word

deliverables —

right between deliver

and —ables.

And then we moved on.