When he saw her for the first time, he made sure he spoke to her. He could remember after the fact the number of buttons that were not latched into their holes at the top of her shirt. Today it was two. Her chest was exposed, and you could see the straps of a harness through a mesh top that covered up her tattoos. When she bounced into the door, her décolletage prickled beneath the chill in the autumn air, he was waiting in front of the clock to give his fingerprint and start the day. She paused beside him, and for once the minute between 7:59 and 8:00 wasn’t long enough.
He was jealous of the laser that touched her finger and knew it was her.
He looked at his rolled up sleeves as to respect her behind when she walked quickly to the double door to work. He wondered why they never asked him to wear sleeves. His arms were quite decorated. Not in tattoos, however. Scars, from a blisteringly harsh self hating time in life blared red and raised all over his body. They were so deep that he called them ‘carvings.’ That time wasn’t really over, and he supposed it might never be. When himself approached the two doors, he opened the seem with his head, and let the sound ring as he took that left to his department. He was a little numb to pain, but just earlier, speaking to that woman with two unbuttoned buttons, he had felt deep calm and pleasure and even goodness. When she was gone away, the sadness returned.