Yesterdales

It wasn't feeling hungry that had brought Dale to the kitchenette. It was more the opposite; a lack of feelings had subconsciously dragged him from sitting as his desk waiting for something to feel about, to the kitchenette waiting for his noodles to microwave. Dale had decided that feeling full of Thai was superior to being empty.

The microwave was perched on the top of Level 8 West's fridge, which was nestled in the corner of the nooky alcove that was the source of so many coffees. Like a TV in a surgery waiting room the spinning SupperWare seemed to draw the attention of all who visited. Dale was leant against the wall and meditating on the radiation that was jostling the particles of his early lunch. Partly this was to support his knee, which still aching from the midnight run last night. Dale had concocted a passive-aggressive fitness strategy to impress Bry, deducing - after several emails from her consisting mostly of cat pictures - that they may not be able to connect on an intellectual level after all.

Dale's wall support was also to add to his nonchalance, which was protecting him from engaging too heavily in small talk with other Level 8 West citizens. Despite spending enough months at his current corporate coordinates and altitude that his youth was blurring into a single grey memory, the kitchenette was one of the only bubbles of sociability he faced. The toilet and lifts were the others. Within his pod of cubicles I knew Dale had familiarities ranging from 'good morning' and 'good night's; to hopes, dreams and jokes about shirking companies policies. But beyond that the people of the office blended into an indiscernible sea of general informality. If I presented Dale with a familiar face he could only pick with a little over twenty percent accuracy whether he knew them from working with them every day or catching the same train home every night. This was inflated somewhat by the fact that more than a handful of candidates did both.

One such candidate, Dale noticed, was hovering in his peripheral with an empty coffee mug. There was a brief moment of eye-contact, before she said 'Sorry' in a polished English accent and moved past Dale to the sink which was at least three feet away from either of them. Dale continued to watch his noodles counting down. He'd chosen the lowest heat setting the microwave had to offer – which its smudged control panel recommended for 'Dessert Fruits; Babies Milk' – along with the ten minute button, and set himself for an unstimulating yet pressure-less break from reality. Dassie, who was either part of the PEDS team or a Kings Station commuter, was not the first to break his dips into alpha sleep visions. Prior to her Dale had already seen the steps of three hesitant dance displays as partnered performers turned and swayed between the fridge, the instant coffee and the kettle in straining, choreographed politeness. There'd also been two nervous fumblings during the filling of water bottles, and he'd answered four rhetorical questions, the most interesting one about the conspiracy behind there never being any skim milk. Dale agreed something was definitely not above board.

Though when the microwave finally chimed Dale was alone. He pulled his noodles, a vegetable ratio that left only a hint of chicken (he hoped Bry was telepathically impressed), from the carousel, then fished a fork from the kitchenette drawer and, after pouring boiling water from the kettle over the prongs and wiping them dry with Handy-V paper towels, stirred his lunch through with a content smile. Not only was he now one sixth of his hourly rate richer, but he also had five hundred grams of low fat Pad Thai. On the downside he was ten minutes closer to death. Dale figured satisfaction probably wasn't supposed to work like this.