I clicked out of the last box and the window disappeared. Good, the desktop was clean. At my feet was the canvas tote bag. I picked it up and wrapped it around my shoulder.

It was far lighter without the beans, too light, as if I was carrying it to make a fashion statement. The same way one might wear glasses without a prescription just to wear glasses, the thought of which aggravated me by its superficiality.

I pushed the rolling chair into my desk, trudged down the hall and opened the door, harder and faster than necessary. At the elevator I pressed the down arrow. 

Another Monday was in the books; I had made it to the other end. The remaining hours were mine now. I possessed them and could do whatever I wished, which really was an exciting prospect if I let myself consider it.  But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. Instead, I carried the entire day, with all its struggle and strive, its stress and anxiety, like a drug I had swallowed with a glass of water, whose effects would not wear off until the end of the night.

The elevator opened fast, almost startling me. I entered, pressed the L button, but then just as the doors began to close a hand stretched through the crack and the steel elevator snapped back.

“Hold it!” a voice said. 

“Sure,” I said. 

I pressed the open button, keeping my finger on it. Then a man with blonde hair entered I had never seen before. He must have been a client in-house for a meeting.

I smiled and nodded at him.

The man stepped in, saying nothing, and slouched over his phone. 

He was was in his early-forties, wearing a navy blazer too short in the arms. A leather briefcase hung from his left hand, which was long and lanky, with a silver watch that appeared to be a Rolex, oversized and with a black face, which stuck out too much for his narrow wrist.

The doors slammed shut. Then the floor got wobbly, just for an instant, and we began descending.

Earlier in the day Fernanda had texted me that she was getting out of work at five o’clock. She did that a couple times a week, in order to have time to run to the gym at Parsons before it closed. She wanted to see me after, she had said, and if I wanted, she would meet me at my office when I got out of work.

I wanted her to come, but I also didn’t, though I could never tell her that. 

If I did tell her no, and that I wanted to be alone, she would be worried that I was unstable and likely to do something irrational which might risk the financial security my job provided. 

So I could not tell her that, instead I just agreed.

“Let’s meet,” I said. “There’s a good sushi restaurant with a happy hour I want to try.” I had texted this, knowing all along she probably wouldn’t want to drink, but I did. 

“See you at your office then!” she said. 

A moment later, the elevator doors opened to the lobby. 

The man slipped his phone into his coat pocket. I followed him past three elevators on our right, waived goodbye to the security guard I couldn’t recall the name of. Then through the swinging doors and onto 51st Street, where a line of cars were backed up, whose headlights beamed through the light drizzle.

“Michael!” a voice said. 

I turned and saw Fernanda, standing against the building with a phone in her hand. She had on the brown pants she had designed in Peru, with a grey Cashmere turtleneck sweater that I identified with her more than anything else she wore. How her face could be so full of light, when darkness surged through me, I did not know. 

“Thanks for meeting me here,” I said, and hugged her tightly. 

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “Now, show me this sushi place. I’m so hungry.”

I took her hand and we walked down the sidewalk towards 51st Street. We made a right, passed a UPS store, then a small Italian restaurant beyond it with a red terrace empty of chairs, and then the little Japanese restaurant. In front of it was a white sign with the happy hour specials on display.  

“There it is,” I pointed. 

“But I’m not thirsty, I’m hungry,” she said with her arms on her waist.

“I know, I know,” I said, “they have sushi too. Come on.” I pulled the glass door open and held it for her. 

As soon as we entered, we were stopped in front of a wooden podium, where a small hostess with straight black hair smiled at us and picked up some menus.

“Just two,” she said.

“Yes,” Fernanda said.

“OK, right this way.”

Instead of taking us down the narrow restaurant, which was near empty, with small two person tables lined up on the right side and a long sushi bar facing it, the hostess led us to a table by the window, which I liked the most.