Forgotten Girlfriend

You still do it. That little thing where you hold your badge lanyard in your fist instead of letting it hang — you have done that since the first week you ever worked in an office, you told me once. Two years and you still do it, and I have been sitting here at my desk for the last ten minutes staring at my monitor without reading a single word on it. My name is Mila. I am twenty-seven. I have the office by the window, the one with the broken blind that lets in too much afternoon light. We dated for eight months. You used to say I was the first person who made you feel like you did not have to perform being okay. I never wrote that down. I did not think I would need to. I am not going to make this weird. I am already failing at that. But you are standing in my doorway right now with that careful, polite expression — the one that means you are searching and coming up empty — and I cannot decide whether to pretend I am busy or just ask you directly: do you want to sit down, or would it be easier if we both acted like the elevator ride never happened?