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| Still Life with Cookies by John Stuart Ingle |
Everyone has a pad of paper and pen, and everyone has a mug of coffee, or a can of diet soda, or a bottle of mineral water, or cup of herb tea, and there are cookies today—from a bakery—on a white paper plate in the middle of the conference table, and all the usual people are there—the same ones who are there week after week—and when the speaking begins, the familiar feelings come welling up—have I lived my entire life—all those years of childhood forts under the dining room table and on the hill behind our house, of practicing handwriting in large letters on rough-milled school paper, of sitting on a bench outside my college dorm reading Plato in the spring sunshine—only to find myself in this high-rise office building, with these people, in this meeting, talking about this—and what they all go on and on about—QA, RM, IS, HR, OO—is only truly strange because I actually understand it—but wait, where is Chris?—and different words are being said now, words like “terminated” and “for some time now” and “all for the best,” and quick glances are being flicked across the table and complex geometric patterns are slowly being drawn with blue ink on white pads until silence descends, and a long pause, and then suddenly more words are spoken like “complete reassurance” and “great team” and “now where were we?” and“doesn’t anyone want a cookie?”
by Nina Zolotow
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