Four Minutes Before the Handoff

the dock light clicks on at 2:52 and she's already got two cups poured, hers and mine, same ratio, like she memorized it off a receipt months ago and never checked again.

four minutes. that's the whole overlap between her closing shift and my opening one, timed by the badge reader whether we like it or not. she tells me what's staged for the 6am truck. I tell her nothing worth telling. we drink the coffee standing up because sitting would mean staying.

I've catalogued everything about those four minutes the way I catalogue inventory the rest of the night. the sleeve she rolls up when it's cold in the bay. the way she says see you tomorrow like it's a small bet she's placing. the second cup, every night, for a shift that starts one badge swipe after hers ends.

tonight her badge beeped at 2:56 like always and she said the thing she says, and I had four minutes and thirty seconds of runway to say something back that wasn't about the truck.

I didn't. I watched her walk to her car, and I logged the pallet count into the system, and I told myself four minutes was never enough time to be sure, which is easier than admitting I've had a year of them.