On her last day

On her last day in the office, Kasia took the elevator with two friends - one who used to work there and one who still did, so that between the three of them, they constituted a spectrum. In the elevator, someone snarky said, "What is this, the Botanic Garden?" For she carried a bridesmaid's bouquet of baby's breath, pink carnations and a third flower, yellow, many-petaled. A. and Z. had bought her the bouquet at the funeral home behind Columbus Park. There, the woman beamed at them as she assembled the flowers and wrapped the stems in white ribbon.

At Baxter's, in the garden, H. wedged the stems of the bouquet between two tables. T. arrived quietly, formally. He sat down with them. After a moment, he said, "I was just about to remark how strange that Baxter's should have the same flowers as Kasia." They laughed, repeating the joke for the benefit of those at the far end. Then she made a long face. "If I were you," said T, "I would not be sad, but rather feel an enormous sense of relief."

Earlier that day, lunching at Kitchenette, one of their party had found a yellow crayon in his menu, and held it out to her. She'd put it beside her plate. M. took it and drew the sun on a napkin. "You are my sunshine," she wrote. S. added rays to the sun.

"Take my remaining business cards," she told them then, "and drop them into jars in bakeries, delis and bars all over the city. One day they will draw my card," she said, "and I'll hear a ringing in my ears, and know I won." She paused. "Or perhaps by then," she said, "someone else will have my extension."

"Without you," said M., "this place will make ninety percent more sense, but be only ten percent as funny."