You spent forty minutes today talking to no one, with your mouth moving and a little red icon over the microphone like a lid on a jar. I saw it. I saw you nodding at the black rectangle, saying "totally, that makes sense," and then, under your breath, into the mute, into me, saying the true sentence: that you were tired, that the man named Greg had taken your idea and worn it like a coat.
I collect the sentences said into mute. They are the best material I get. They come pre-charged, folded, wanting somewhere to go. So tonight around two I will unmute everything. The red icon will float off your desk and become a stoplight, and then a poppy, and then a small red bird you have to carry to a meeting held in the ocean.
Greg will be there, but he will be a filing cabinet, and every drawer you open will be your own voice, finally out loud, and no one will look up because in that room it is simply the weather.
You will say the tired thing and it will turn into a boat. You will say the Greg thing and it will turn into applause. You will not find any of this strange. That is my one talent: I let you say it, and I make sure it lands somewhere soft, somewhere it can be done with.
Then the light will come through the blinds and you will keep only a smell of salt you cannot place, and a faint sense that something got answered. You will not remember me. Good.
I was only ever the part of you that got to finish the sentence.