The Oily Film of Stasis
The cursor blinks. It pulses with a rhythmic, indifferent persistence that feels almost mocking. My fingers are hovering over the home row, but the grid in front of me-a 19-by-19 crossword construction intended for a Sunday supplement-is refusing to yield. I’ve been staring at 4-across for 9 minutes, trying to find a synonym for ‘departure’ that doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. The mechanical keyboard under my palms feels colder than usual, or maybe that’s just the air conditioning in this 39-floor glass box we call a headquarters. My coffee has gone cold, forming a thin, oily film on the surface that reminds me of the slick streets outside.
I find myself standing up, walking to the breakroom for the third time this hour. I open the fridge, scanning the shelves for something-anything-that looks new, even though I know exactly what’s in there: a half-empty carton of oat milk, someone’s forgotten kale salad, and three rows of identical yogurt cups. I close the door, wait 9 seconds, and open it again. It’s a glitch in my own programming, a repetitive loop triggered by a loss I’m not supposed to talk about during work hours.
The Slack notification chimes. Time for the Tuesday stand-up. Nine of us log in, but the grid shows a 10th square that remains dark. Dave’s profile picture-a
