The Drawer I Never Started
A drawer holds one item from every coworker who's left in six years. I don't know who'll keep something of mine.
There's a drawer under the break room microwave that's mine, unofficially, the way anything unlabeled in a shared kitchen eventually belongs to whoever uses it most. Silverware nobody claims, a Tupperware lid with no bottom, and in the back, wrapped in a paper towel, six small things I've never told anyone about.
A keychain shaped like a cat, from the girl who ran inventory before she moved for her husband's job. A hair tie, from the intern who cried in the stairwell and then got hired somewhere better. A pen that writes in purple, from the guy who trained me and then trained my replacement for a job I hadn't left yet.
I didn't plan this. I noticed it existed about two years in, already half full, and I couldn't remember picking up the first thing, only that I had one from everyone who'd gone before I did. Every time someone leaves I clean out their desk before facilities does, and something always ends up in my pocket instead of the donation box.
Tonight I'm closing alone and I open the drawer and count. Six years, six things, and eleven people have left this building since I started. Five of them I don't have anything from at all, which means somewhere in me I was choosing, deciding who counted enough to keep.
I almost write a note and put it in with them. Something like I was here too. I fold the paper towel back over instead and shut the drawer, because I don't actually know who I'd be leaving it for.