The Cart With the Bad Wheel

third night this week i've closed the place down. everyone clocks out at six and i keep telling myself i'll leave at eight, and then it's eleven, and then it's past two and the only other person in the building is the cleaner. i don't know her name. we've never really talked. she does my floor around now, headphones in, dragging the cart with the one bad wheel that goes thunk every couple of feet.

my status dot went yellow hours ago. nobody messaged. it's honest in here at night in a way the place never is at noon — nobody performing busy, nobody cc'ing anyone. just me, the hum of the one fridge in the kitchen, and the thunk of that wheel getting closer and farther like a tide.

tonight she stopped at my desk. pointed at my screen, then up at the clock, then made a little shooing motion and smiled. go home. i laughed, and it startled me, my own voice making a sound after hours of not.

so i'm packing up. and somewhere between the laptop and the lamp it landed on me that she's the only one all week who told me to stop. not my manager. not the group chat. not the guy whose work i've been quietly covering. the lady with the bad wheel. i left my lamp on for her.