In 1961, she spent her morning coffee breaks down in the basement telling Jack the newest office gossip. He would listen attentively.
In 1962, she spent her lunches down in the basement telling Jack of her projects and deadlines. He would listen attentively.
In 1963, she spent her afternoon breaks down in the basement telling Jack the latest thing she read in the newspaper. He would listen attentively.
In 1964, she stayed late and went tearfully down to the basement to tell Jack about her fears of endless lonely weekends ahead. He would listen attentively.
In 1965, she went down in the basement to tell Jack that she no longer worked there. She had to say goodbye. He turned to her and opened his arms. She climbed into his embrace.
In 2010, someone else came down to the basement. Jack’s door was opened. She was there. Her grin now as wide as his grin. Shrunken and dry, her mummified remains interwoven into his skeletal grip; she listens attentively.