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Tuesday morning hit like a freight train. I barely remembered getting out of bed, kissing Kristen goodbye while she scrolled her phone with that same bright, distracted smile from last night. She’d said something about “maybe heading down later to see if Brad needed help with anything,” but I was already half out the door, mind on the pile of reports waiting for me. For once, the knot in my stomach loosened a little during the commute. Work had a way of drowning out everything else when it got bad enough.
The office was buzzing when I walked in. People huddled in small groups, whispering, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. I dropped my bag at my desk and barely had time to log in before Carlos’s voice boomed across the open floor.
“Everyone. Conference room. Now.”
We shuffled in like kids called to the principal’s office. Carlos stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, looking more annoyed than usual. He didn’t waste time.
“The cleaning company just announced a strike. Effective immediately. Apparently the owner is a cheapskate who hasn’t paid salaries in two months. They’re not coming today, tomorrow, or probably the rest of the week. Bathrooms, kitchen, trash, floors, all of it. Someone needs to step up and handle it for today. Volunteer. One person. I’m not paying overtime, but I’ll buy lunch for whoever does it.”
Silence for three seconds.
Then from the back, near the coffee machine, someone muttered just loud enough to carry.
“I volunteer Tim.” A few shy laughs rippled through the room. Nervous. Mean. Familiar. Another voice, bolder. “Yeah, Tim’s got it.” Then another. “Tim for sure.”
Four or five more chimed in, quick and casual, like they’d rehearsed it. The laughter grew a little louder, though still the awkward kind that dies fast when the boss glances over.
I felt my face burn. I didn’t look around. I just stared at the table, hands flat on the wood, pulse thudding in my ears.
Carlos didn’t even blink. He scanned the room once, saw no other hands, and shrugged.
“Fine. Tim, you’re it. You know where the supplies are. Mop, broom, gloves, all that. Bathrooms first, then kitchen, then trash run. And don’t forget your reports are still late from yesterday. Finish those by end of day too. No excuses.”
He clapped once, like that settled it, and walked out.
The room emptied fast. A couple people patted my shoulder as they passed, half-sympathetic, half-smirking. “Thanks, man.” “You’re a team player.” I didn’t answer. I just sat there until the room was empty, then dragged myself back to my desk.
The rest of the morning blurred into bleach fumes and wet floors. I scrubbed toilets, emptied trash bins that smelled like old lunches and coffee grounds, mopped hallways while people stepped around me like I was furniture. Every time someone walked by they’d give that same awkward half-smile, like they felt bad but not bad enough to help. By lunch my shirt was soaked with sweat, knees aching, hands raw from the cheap rubber gloves.
I didn’t think about Kristen once. Not about her smile last night. Not about the bathroom whispers. Not about Brad. Work swallowed everything. The humiliation of being the “volunteer” janitor for the day was so immediate, so physical, it pushed everything else out.
Around two I took a five-minute break in the supply closet, sitting on an upside-down bucket, staring at my phone. No new messages from her. Just a single text from 11:17 a.m.
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