1
Had it not been for the arrival of my new teammate I’d probably have forever teetered on the edge of corporate social suicide; too many years of overzealous working, forged sick notes on team building days and a hermit-like fear of leaving those four tiny walls had nurtured me into the company wallflower, a background presence who spent office parties holding up walls instead of conversations.
My co-worker’s presence made once unfamiliar colleagues slowly begin charting the unknown territory of my office doorway, drawn as much to explore by his famed professionalism as they were to how remarkably he warmed to anyone he met. Even in the increasingly rare moments when we were alone his pleasant humming brought ambience where there had once so conspicuously been none, and seemingly shallow gestures like printouts being collated without my asking revealed, even if just to me, a much deeper friendship.
Although still more inclined to spend Friday nights in poring over sales figures than out pouring daiquiris, I’m glad I can always draw on these memories of the office photocopier, its cries of low toner an unspoken reciprocation of my affections, the rich glow peeking from under its lid more of a light in my life than anyone could’ve known.
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2
I’ll never forget the day she arrived at the office like a breath of pure, fresh air in the lifeless vacuum of the 4th floor accounting department. Her very presence turned my cramped alcove into a place where hasty desk lunches became treasured feasts, and the confines of drab prefab walls became warm and enveloping as if to hide the brightness she brought me from the rest of the world.
Oh, even to this day I draw affectionately upon those stirring recollections; working late on evenings when we didn’t have to, or sharing a glass of water when neither of us was thirsty. Always a patient listener no matter what deliberations weighed heavy on my mind, I can still picture how she shrank when I regaled her with less-than-thrilling tales of the week’s projected sales figures, or how she seemed to flourish under the words of my own clumsy poetry.
Despite the years having faded them somewhat I think I’ll somehow always be able to look back on those fond memories of the office plant, its understanding fronds more like the lush seaside palms of my desktop wallpaper than anyone ever knew, its sombre magnificence in the shady nook beside my copier a beautifully scenic postcard moment all its own.
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3
It was a gurgling oasis in the middle of the cube farm desert. Workers from the mail room all the way up to Megan, my secretary, gathered around it ritualistically every day, united as much by their thirst for its refreshing contents and they were by the gossip that invariably flowed just as easily. Oh, how fondly I remember its pensive murmurings bubbling up reassuringly across the carpet-tiled floor, its borehole water bounty forever shimmering under the always-on neon lights.
But it was more than just a perpetual fountain of refreshment. That therapeutic rumbling kept me company on many a Friday night spent poring over quarterly reports; when the elevators went down during a particularly balmy November afternoon, its bountiful nozzles reinvigorated every single stair-tired worker; and, circled by a crowd of gushing secretaries and well-wishing onlookers, it played host to the announcement of Julian from Accounting’s long awaited engagement.
Yes indeed, it never ceased to amaze me: that stoic monument to procrastination, that pit stop in corporate life’s fast lane. In fact, there’s very little else I remember so fondly as the office water cooler, that tiny shortcut in the rat race’s maze whose seemingly endless supply of reassurance meant my glass was always half full.
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