You clenched me the second the fourth face appeared in the little grid. I felt it: the jaw came down first, molars finding each other like they'd been waiting all morning for an excuse. Then the shoulders climbed toward the ears and stayed there, hunched, holding something I couldn't see. A word landed, "timeline," and your stomach folded once, quietly, the way it does. I made a little acid for that. I always do. It's what I have to offer.
For forty minutes you did not blink enough. I know because I kept flooding the eyes with the emergency water, over and over, trying to keep them from drying to paper while you stared. Somewhere in there a voice said "let's circle back" and your breath, which I run for you free of charge, stopped for nine full seconds. I waited. I always wait. Then I took it back myself when you forgot.
You typed a smile you did not feel and I made the face do it anyway, the cheeks lifting on command, good soldiers. Under the desk one foot was tapping a code neither of us understood. The thirst was building the whole time. You noticed the ping, the doc, the tone in the third person's message. You did not notice the thirst.
I don't know what any of it was for. I only know where you put it: the jaw, the shoulders, the small hot knot behind the belt. I'll hold it. I'm good at holding.
But the meeting is over now, and the shoulders are still up by your ears. Would you let them down? And there's a glass in the kitchen. I've been asking for an hour. Just the water.
Then I'll carry the rest.