Rain pelts its rage against the series of tall windows facing the street outside my office building from 10 stories up.  It looks like dusk outside in the noisy grey city, yet the clock disagrees.

I sit at my computer typing solidly away as coworkers comment on idiot Illinois politicians, inaugural balls they rejected invites to and whether it’s OK for a man to date someone much younger but not just as acceptable for a woman. I smile for I know what I would reply.

A sign of being busy. The stacks of papers, filings, binders and I’ll-get-to later documents on my desk have started to slide over and accross the short workspace dividers. I’m slowly invading the land of Joel and Bill.

Bill comments on it. I point out that the stack of newspapers on one end is not my mess. He concedes but I get the point. I need to clean this up come Monday.

Strewn on my desk are also empty thin cobalt blue glass water bottles (ooh pretty), a “green team” company thermos, my green coat neatly folded at one end rests atop unopened packs of instant “taste of Thai” noodles and somehow the mess has been spreading under the desk too. Eegads.

Signs of aging or loosing weight?  I look down. My hands are not as fat and smooth as they used to be.  Small wrinkles are starting to show along each pink finger and my hands have small red cuts here and there.  Signs of a struggle with one very stubborn Christmas tree. 

I’ve let my hair down from the tight bun it was twisted into as I ran for the bus this morning. All but the outside of the hair in the bun falls down damp, heavy and cold on my suit jacket. It reminds me for a moment how it feels to have wet hair caress my shoulders each morning. Sign of simple pleasures.

I hear metal filing cabinet of boss open and somehow I know it means he’s packing up to go home. Funny how we get to know the little signs of people we know.  Sign of the work day’s end.

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