By the time I clocked out, the office had already started to quiet down. The hum of printers, the shuffle of papers, the occasional echo of heels against the tiled floor — all of it dimmed to a soft after-hour murmur. I glanced at the corner of my laptop screen. 6:51 p.m.
Almost seven.
I shut it down, leaned back in my chair, and stretched until my back popped. A full day. Productive enough to feel earned, not enough to feel too exhausting.
Derrick had left half an hour earlier — 6:30 on the dot, like he always did. He'd called it "a date with destiny." Then he'd paused, smirked, and added, "Destiny, in this case, happens to be a barista named Leona who thinks I'm funny. Pray for her."
Classic Derrick.
