His desk was a model of minimalist efficiency, a reflection of an organized mind. A single screen, now disconnected from the laptop he always brought home after work. Raised to a comfortable eye level by a pile of books on software testing and design principles. A neat pile of phones and tablets. Adapters and charger placed in a box in the corner, neatly coiled. Books, folders and papers on a small shelf. The only decoration was a single red satin bow on top of his screen, originally a leftover Christmas ornament he'd attached ironically, but since grown fond of.
Her desk, by contrast: Three screens. A clutter of tea cups, many still containing cold and/or undrinkable tea. Framed photographs of her cats. Code printouts. Plates (with and without sandwich crusts). Stuffed animals. Post-it notes of every color and format. She tried to keep them at bay, but they kept spreading across every area like a living organism. A pair of terminal glasses, consistently placed where she wouldn't find them.
She very much preferred her own desk, especially now. Looking at that clinical precision without the human it was designed for just somehow seemed so lonely.
He actually had an amazing track record of never being sick. During the two years they had been working together, he hadn't so much as caught a cold. She'd never realized how important he had become to her daily routine until Monday when he failed to show up, an email arriving at noon informing them he had a bad fever and could barely make it out of bed, let alone to the office.
This had sent her into something of a tailspin. They had always both arrived before almost anybody else on the development staff, and then had an hour or so to talk, share in-jokes or just work in silence, his presence oddly comforting.
He had a reputation around the office as being unapproachably introverted, but she knew this wasn't the truth: he spoke when he had something to say. In an environment where big talk was the norm, he seemed an anomaly.
Get to know him and he had a subtle sense of humor, and when you'd laugh he's smile at you, not like he was proud of his own joke but like he was happy for you. A smile that included his whole face, creasing the corners of his brown eyes, making the his small mouth twist just so. Spreading a tingling sense of warmth in her chest and belly.
He laughed even more rarely, but when she managed to get one out of him, it was loud and unabashed, making her feel like she'd just scored a great victory, eager to make him laugh again.
It was now Wednesday. How many times just today had she thought to ask or tell him something, only to look over at his desk and find it empty? She found herself counting the days until his return, giving him a full week just to be sure, she'd even toyed with the idea of keeping a calendar. Pathetic, she knew.
After finishing work she decided to go check up on him. Purely as one colleague would on another, she told herself not quite convincingly.
- - -
The chilly November wind caught her hair, momentarily blowing it across her face, bringing with it the sweet smell of dead leaves.
His house was a simple, single-strory brick terrace house with a small patch of lawn. The now mostly withered grass showed signs of having been regularly mowed and weeded.
Her heart was pounding as she walked up the cobbled path. It had all seemed very straightforward until she actually found herself staring at the doorbell. Now it seemed almost impossible to make herself actually push the button.
It was weird for her to be here, wasn't it? What would he think when he opened the door? Did he live here alone? She had never considered the option that he might not, but then he never shared much of his personal life. For all she knew he had a family. What would they think of her showing up like this? Also, it was stupid of her to get herself sick and spread whatever he had to the rest of the office. Not that she cared much about the rest of the office.
She started down the path back to the main road then turned around, walked up the short stairway to his house again, repeated this process three times, then finally managed to trick herself. While turning to leave she accidentally-on-purpose rung the doorbell, the loud noise startling even herself to the point that she actually jumped.
The echoes died out. Nothing. Surely he was home?
Well, she wasn't one for half-measures. She rang again, longer this time.
Come to think of it, he was probably asleep. She shouldn't wake him. She really hadn't thought this through at all, which, to be fair, was just like her and why she needed his help so often at the office and... Wait. Did she hear a noise from inside?
The door opened, letting out warmth along with the unfamiliar combination of smells peculiar to someone else's home. His familiar face appeared in the doorway. She had initially found him rather odd-looking, but could no longer remember why or how. Now it just made her feel like things were right again, her decision correct.
He looked in pretty bad shape though. His eyes were red and glazed, his skin pale. His brown hair was in a state of uncharacteristic disarray, sticking to a sweaty forehead. He was clutching bed covers around himself, like an oddly cut and patterned winter coat. With his lanky frame stooped over, he didn't look much taller than she was.
A look of utter confusion spread across his face, widening his glazed eyes, as if he couldn't understand who or perhaps even what she was. She felt herself going cold, then hot.
Recognition set in and his face transformed. Like when she snuck up on him at the office, a smile that made it seem like he'd been waiting a long time for you and was happy you were finally here. "Oh. Hi!"
Butterflies fluttered wildly inside her. "Hi?"
"I didn't expect you here."
"I... I thought I would check in on you." She swallowed, tried to keep from shaking. "See how you were recovering."
"Oh. Thanks, that's really nice of you." His voice sounded tired, but happy. Or so she hoped. She tried to listen for other voices from inside, but there were none. He looked back, into the hallway. "I was just in the middle of cooking, do you want to come in?"
"I..." Her heart leapt into her throat and she had to wait a moment to speak. "I would love to!"
He stepped out of the way, gesturing for her to enter. "Ladies first." He shuddered, pulled his covers tighter then smiled again.
"Thanks." She took off her shoes and coat. "You've got a lovely home." Warm lighting. A single abstract painting. Shoe and coat racks barely containing anything at all, off-season clothes presumably stowed away in a wardrobe somewhere. In contrast, back in her own apartment, her own clothes were overflowing, spilling onto the floor and surrounding furniture.
She really should have expected his home to be as neat as his desk. Practical, yet well-made furniture, everything seemingly in its place. Just the hallway was a marvel of efficient storage, probably the rest of the home would be, too.
He started walking, slowly, almost like an old man, she followed him into the living room.
"You've nobody to help you out?" She asked, tentatively.
He turned around and gave her a tired smile. "No, just me all alone."
"That's too bad when you're sick"
He shrugged. "Well, what can you do?" He motioned towards the couch, pillows neatly organized. Probably unused this past week. "You can sit here while I finish." He started making his way to a doorway, small kitchen visible beyond. She remained standing.
Through another doorway she could see his bed, a mess of sheets, missing the covers. A box of tissues fought for space with unwashed dishes and cups on the bedside table, clothes lay strewn on the floor.
Looking back towards him, he still stood looking at the kitchen as if for a moment he was unsure where he was or why he might be there. He shuddered as she touched his bony shoulder as she had done so often at the office. Now that she was in his home, it felt somehow oddly intimate.
- - -
He felt an almost electric tingle as she touched his shoulder, shocking him out of his reverie. He must have zoned out again. Before he heard the doorbell he'd stood staring at the ingredients for several minutes, mind blank.
"Hey!" At the sound of her voice he turned around, looking down into her blue eyes, large in a round freckled face. She looked up at him slightly cross-eyed, concern changing to determination. "You sir, " she spun him around and he found himself momentarily dizzy, "are in no state to cook."
He took her arm. She was stronger than he was, pulling him towards her seemingly with little effort, then put her arm around him. Suddenly her short and chubby frame seemed to him that of a teddy bear, soft against him. The support was welcome; he felt suddenly weak in his knees.
"Off to bed with you!" She led and he followed. He couldn't shake the image of him being dragged along by a cuddly, yet implacable teddy bear. The absurdity of it made him laugh. She gave him a worried look.
He let himself be led into the bedroom, even let her put the covers over him like he was a tiny child. She was younger than he was, or so he thought since he couldn't remember asking her age, but the face looking down on him was motherly, filling him with a sense of security and comfort. It suited her, somehow.
She returned to the doorway, turned around to face him. "I'll finish whatever you were making." Still so incongruous in his home. No longer a teddy-bear but herself, dressed in black hoodie and blue jeans, leaning on the doorframe.
"Lentil soup. Recipe's on the counter."
"Got it. Then I should be all set!" She marched off with that determination he had always admired, ready to get shit done.
He had been missing her. It had been too lonely, alone at home. He drifted in and out, listened to the noises of pans and cupboards, of frying and boiling and of her humming, occasionally swearing, from the kitchen. He felt the smells of cooking starting to drift in through the door. Now that she was here, it really felt like something had been put right.
He felt a warmth spread in his chest. Was it the fever? His analytic mind seemed to be on hiatus and so he was reduced to raw sensory input.
- - -
