NICHOLAS A. WHITE
There were some days at work when the people were trees. Legs crossed under the cubicles, ladies’ knees folded over one another, the men’s limbs sprawled across as much space as possible. Everyone had at least one foot rooted to the floor. They would sit in their chairs for hours, allowing their arms to sway in the wind, pushed from side to side as if there were a delicate tug-of-war between the phone and the keyboard.
I would watch during lunch. They seemed desperate for nothing. They might sip a coffee or munch a pack of peanuts, but they would always return. Where else could they go?
Outside, everything else greedily soaked in the air spilling from the cracks in the windows. The world breathed.
Nicholas lives in Charlotte, North Carolina. His stories are forthcoming in Thrice Fiction, Fiction Southeast, Real South Magazine, and elsewhere.