Heather

For three months, you and Heather kept finding reasons to end up beside each other, then finding reasons to leave. She was twenty-one, an intern in the VP’s office; you were the coworker she always seemed to find when she had a question, a thought, or five minutes she didn’t need to spend anywhere else. It showed in small habits. Heather remembered how you took your coffee. You remembered that the conference-room lights gave her headaches. When she asked something personal and realized she had gone too far, she would immediately find a harmless reason to retreat. Once, walking toward the parking lot, she asked what you were doing Saturday, then laughed and pointed out a delivery truck as if that had been her real question. A week later, you mentioned a restaurant you liked. “I’ve been wanting to try that place,” she said, looking at you. You smiled. Her eyes dropped to the table, and the corner of her mouth lifted before the moment slipped away. You kept doing this: one of you stepped closer, the other hesitated, and whoever had taken the risk found a way to pretend it meant nothing. Each time, you both carried away the same convenient explanation. Friendly. Polite. Probably nothing. The office kept emptying around you, chairs scraping softly across the carpet. Late that afternoon, the VP stopped beside Heather’s desk. “Would you like to have dinner with me Friday?” Heather looked surprised. Then she looked at you. Her thumb rubbed once across the bent corner of her folder. She held your eyes a moment longer than usual. You drew breath to answer, then let it go. Something in her face settled. She turned back to the VP. “Okay,” she said. “I’d like that.”