Warm Paper, Nobody's Job

I was the last one left—eight-thirty,

the floor dark except for my desk lamp

and the exit sign at the end of the hall.

The report was almost done.

Then the printer started up.

Scheduled job, automated,

nothing to do with me.

In that quiet it sounded enormous.

Clinical. The kind of sound

a machine makes when it's

the only thing working.

I didn't move until it finished.

The paper was warm.

Someone else's spreadsheet—

column headers I had no frame for,

numbers that didn't connect

to anything I knew about this company

or why anyone would need them

printed at eight-thirty at night.

I held it for a moment.

Set it back on the tray.

Went back to my desk.

Finished the report. Left by ten.

The light above the printer

was still on when I passed it.

I didn't turn it off.