THE NEXT DAY, L. doesn’t even say hello or mention me throwing anything away. She just launches straight into things.

“They’re going to hire another security guard,” she says. “For the day shift. I might switch over.” She winds her gum around her obviously unclean finger, and then sticks her finger into her mouth to scrape the gum off with her teeth. She probably chews gum in the bathroom too, with her mouth open, that little wad absorbing all the germs in the air.

“Why would they need anyone in the daytime?” I ask. “With all those people around?” I put my lunch in the fridge and try not to look at her or think about her gum, her teeth, her mouth, all so unclean.

“People want that feeling of safety,” she says. “It’s about consistency.” As though she provides any kind of consistency, napping and wandering the building, more ghost than guard.

“They have the budget for that?” I ask.

“Some costs are unavoidable,” she says. “You invest up front so people feel safer, work harder. And if someone’s cutting corners, you catch them. It’s a big money-saver, actually. They just want to get things back on track.”

“You don’t know what anybody wants. Who would you even talk to about it?” I ask. “Except M. And what would M. know about what happens here?”

“You like M.,” she says.

“I don’t dislike them,” I say. She’s projecting, trying to goad me into asking about her and M., but I won’t do it.

“And besides, lots of people were talking about it,” she says. “You should be nicer or get here a little earlier, like I do.”

No matter what L. writes on her time sheet, I almost always get here before she does. I grit my teeth, still too awake to absorb her lecture. If it was later on in my shift, I could maybe take it. I could float away to somewhere else and listen to her buzz around me, waiting to see if she offered any valuable information. She’d be like anything else: the hum of the overhead lights, the rush of the pipes in the walls, the sound of the heat or air-conditioning kicking on, depending on the season. Just the creaks and groans I’m used to. But I’m not yet into the groove of the night, so I stop her.

“I have to get to work,” I say, pivoting away.

“Our breakroom looks pretty good,” she says. “Maybe you can wipe down the counters too.”

I go to the storage closet, trying to walk loudly enough to drown out anything else she might say. There’s a note from someone on the fourth floor, complaining about the “fakey vanilla smell” and asking me to use something else. L. hasn’t seen it, because if she had, she would have been thrilled to point it out. There’s no greeting or signature. It’s simply affixed to the door. And they’ve not included an actual question mark in their question, though they’ve phrased it “Can you.” I’ve been using the vanilla for a while, so it’s strange to complain about it now. I wonder if Yarn Guy has noticed it yet. Maybe I’ll clean his desk and the space around him with the vanilla but go back to my usual for everything else. I hate to think about the smells mixing. I wouldn’t want the vanilla to become too muddled.

And imagine leaving a note to complain about the way someone cleans up after you. Maybe they want to come and show me how to mop or empty their trash cans. I fold the note and stick it in my cart.

I think about cleaning the grout between the tiles, a thing that doesn’t have to be done frequently, but makes me feel very Zen whenever I do it. There’s an evenness to the work, a pattern that I’m sucked into. I go from line to line, tile to tile. The clean floor blooms out from a corner, everything shining and brightening as I go. But I’d like to start the project away from L., so I’d have a while to get into the rhythm of it before I have to listen to her prattle on or ask endless questions. Am I stripping the finish off the tiles? That’ll make them easier to scratch or break. Don’t I know that? And do I know that slouching will cause irreparable damage? I ought to be more cognizant of my spine and how it lines up with my neck. As though she doesn’t spend nearly her entire shift slouching tediously on her stool in the lobby, visible to the street as only a hunch.

I hit all the buttons in the elevator so that if L. follows me to the lobby, she won’t immediately know what floor I’m on. Then I get off on the top floor and I go from desk to desk, comparing handwriting to the note left on the storage closet door. It was written childishly, in all capital letters, so it’s hard to compare them as precisely as I’d like. I find two or three desks that seem possible, but I can’t be sure—and then I see that Résumé Woman’s desk is cleared out. I wonder if she found something better, or if they let her go because they know she’s ungrateful, disloyal. Her desk has already been carefully wiped down, so it shines. Someone took note of her bad vibes and made sure to scrub them away. It’s a good desk, near the windows, and I wonder if someone will take her spot, or if they’ll hire her replacement before anyone can move in. The turnover isn’t generally that fast here, but good desks don’t stay empty forever.

I move over to Mr. Buff’s desk. He’s farther from the windows, but because of his angle, the view is actually better. I look carefully and the handwriting isn’t his, but I hadn’t suspected it was. He’s not the type. There are no cigarettes tonight, and no sign that he’s connected with the intern. I wonder if he’s playing her hot and cold: he’s too much and then not enough. Is he pouting after my reprimand? Or maybe he’s generally unattractive and the cigarettes hadn’t mattered at all. Maybe he’s older.

If he and the intern knew how much desperation they had in common, or if they could look at one another without judging this quality that they hate in themselves, they’d see a perfect match: someone who understood them, truly. Instead, they’re set up to judge one another, to sense weakness and strike. It’s hard to know them both and watch them live this way.

So much of the office is like that: people who hate themselves and their jobs, but then direct those feelings toward everyone else. It’s why I’d rather work alone, at night. There’s no one to compete with, no one to think I’m coming for their job, no one to stand over my shoulder and tell me that I’m not doing something right, that I missed a spot, and also, I should be working faster, don’t I know that?

I enter Mr. Buff’s password and log in to his computer, but then get up and tilt his desk, angling it toward hers so they might look up from their work and see one another during the day. It’s a slight adjustment—nothing that puts the room off-kilter. I admire the view and look through Mr. Buff’s computer, but there’s nothing interesting. I’d be shocked if there was.

On a whim, I look up the CEO. He’s easy to find and looks like any other man. I visit his LinkedIn page but it’s boring. It lists this job and one like it, and another and another. His education is stacked beneath that. School is the most boring thing you can learn about a person, like hearing that they enjoy trivia night. It’s strange to me that anyone would take glee in answering questions or taking tests. What if we just told them they were very smart? Would that be enough to end trivia nights?

I search his name “and wife” but nothing comes up. He gets his own picture, his own news article, but who is she? I know he’s married because I’ve seen her photo on his desk. There’s also a picture of a dog there, a breed I’ve never seen before, not common in this area. It’s big and goofy and looking to the side of the camera. This dog might be their only progeny. Put a tie on him and make him the shortest, cutest nepotism hire. Animals are straightforward in their demands. They won’t leave notes complaining about the “fakey vanilla smell,” whatever that means.

I hear the elevator open, so I close the window, turn off Mr. Buff’s monitor, and stand up.

“I’m doing the floors,” I say, and shepherd L. back to the elevator, back toward her stool. There are probably cars she could be watching drive by. Maybe an ambulance, if she’s lucky. Maybe a sense of purpose or achievement. If she logs enough hours and waits patiently, someone will leave her a note telling her she’s good. She’ll tuck it into her pocket and walk around all shift, maybe all week, thinking, I am pretty good, aren’t I?

“I heard about this new cleaning spray,” she says, as the door is closing. “It’s made with vinegar.” She says something else, but thankfully the doors are closed now, and she’s heading back downstairs where she belongs.

In the breakroom I find they’ve switched to generic coffee. I don’t know how expensive the other kind was, but it’d been the same one since I started working here. The granola bars are also a cheaper brand and seem largely untouched. A few months ago, they changed the brand of industrial cleaner I use, and I hadn’t thought much of it, but maybe the new one is cheaper. These kind of low-level budget cuts aren’t that noticeable, but they might be a window into more. What’s next? Maybe an inventory of what I use to clean? Will they ask me to count trash bags and measure out ounces of cleaner?

I wonder what else we’re cheaping out on that I can’t see, and I study the room. There’s a new flyer above the counter to the left of the microwave. “Remember to cast your vote for who will cater our employee appreciation lunch!” Under the text, there’s a clip art of some balloons and then, strangely, a goofy smiling dog with long ears and a little bow tie. I don’t see any way to cast a vote of my own. They aren’t thinking of me.

On my way back to Mr. Buff’s desk, I see a crocheted coaster on the desk of a woman who I would have said was otherwise unremarkable. Maybe she was Soda Woman in my head before this moment, because she drinks several cans a day, but I’m not sure I’ve actively thought of her at all. But now I can see she’s Coaster Woman—and, of course, this coaster is one that Yarn Guy made. I can tell by the stitching, the colors. There’s a blocky orange cat face in the middle of a patchy green background.

The yarn’s already frayed from use. I’d never care so poorly for something he made, but she’s been utterly cavalier with it. Who does she think she is? Maybe it was a platonic gift. He drew her name from a hat. Her grandmother died and he’s just that kind of guy. Or maybe she stole it. Maybe she wanted a coaster and just took it from his desk. I look through her things to see if it’s part of a set, but this cat is a solo artist.

I do find nail clippers, something only a depraved person would have in their desk at work. Imagine cutting your nails in the middle of the workday. That little click, click, click while people are trying to write emails. An errant nail could shoot halfway across the room. It could hit someone in the eye or fall into a drink. I’ll have to be extra vigilant around her desk, looking carefully for her snipped-off nails caught in the fabric of someone’s chair or resting on the edge of their keyboard. I squint. If Yarn Guy knew what kind of person she was, he wouldn’t have bothered with her.

I take the coaster and slide it back into his desk, in the bottom drawer, beneath several spools of yarn and some funny-shaped scissors. She doesn’t deserve it and probably won’t even notice it’s gone. I fluff everything back up, give it a quick pat, and close the drawer.

I’ve been thinking of learning to crochet or knit, or at least learning the difference between the two. And then, when I’m almost as good as him, I can leave him a gift, my own handmade coasters, or a scarf. I’ll write a note to go with it. “Noticed we’re both knitters or crocheters or whatever. We should have tea!”

I’ll draw a picture of some yarn and the needles I used. Then I’ll leave my phone number. It’ll be very casual, cute. We’ll talk yarn and crafts, and maybe that’ll bleed into helpful gossip. Does he know, for example, that the guy three desks over and two desks back watches gifs of porn on his work computer? Porn Guy’s back is to a wall and maybe no one walks that way, so he’s not worried about anyone seeing. He and another person in the office, though I’m not sure who, exchange these gifs all day, like a running commentary of how they’re feeling or what they’re thinking. What does a three-way kiss signal? How about a detached cartoon ass? It’s hard to say, but this is one small thing I can tell Yarn Guy about the people who sit around him. And once I help him get ahead, I’ll be irreplaceable. He won’t think of Coaster Woman at all, not even if it’s her birthday or she’s gravely ill.