I haven’t gotten to know Denise very well. She works next door as the receptionist of a small advertisement company which isn’t advertised anywhere online.
The owner of the company’s name is Bob and he is roughly around eighty year’s old. His slim figure is often hunched over and his stride is slow. Despite this he regularly takes the stairs instead of the elevator, plays tennis, and I often see him carrying novels or a folded up newspaper.
Bob says things like, “Hello.” and lingers on his annunciation. Sometimes I get a bright, “You look tan, today!” When I haven’t been in the sun for ages.
Denise never says hello, but she does a weird sort of thing with her mouth that I imagine to be a smile. She is overweight for her petite height, wears flip flops daily, and is always carrying a tote bag or two filled with God knows what. Denise isn’t unkind, but she isn’t warm either.
I wonder how long she’s been resigned to her routine of tote bags and flip flops. I find myself wondering if she fantasizes over self-improvement or if she enjoys herself as she is.
On one occasion I peeped into her car as I was passing it on my way to mine. It was covered in trash, magazines, and lottery tickets. I felt a twinge of guilt for looking; as if I was confirming a guess.
I wondered if anyone ever looked into my car what they’d be confirming.