I wanted to turn to Marissa and tell her my boyfriend would be meeting me for lunch next week and I would be bringing him up to the office to meet everyone, but in case he didn’t make it I refrained from telling her.

The office reminded me of the hospital. The walls were the same, the ceiling was the same, the layout was the same, and the windows; which didn’t open, were also the same. Some of the differences were suits and office attire instead of hospital gowns; people in rows of cubicles staring at computer screens instead of patients in rows of chairs looking up at a communal television; there was no ping-pong table or “Connect Four” here; and no one came around to check your blood pressure on the hour.

In the hospital there was a patient named Mae, she was an older black woman, quite, sweet, slow moving, and probably in her 70’s. She usually kept to herself, a quality I try to not interfere with, that is, unless they come to me.

One day as she was making her usual shuffled walk around the ward she stopped next to me, directed her glance from the ground to my face, and said, “my family is coming to visit me today”. It was the first time she ever talked to me. “Oh, that’s great” I responded. I asked her who, which engaged us in a conversation about her life. With a smile on her face she shuffled away. I was looking forward to meeting them.

The next day I had forgotten about their arrival until Mae once again came up to me, this time in a sad manner. She said, “my family couldn’t make it, but they’ll be coming today”. As I related to the feeling of being let down with the absence of a loved one I told her I was sorry they didn’t make it and I was sure they were looking forward to seeing her.

A couple days passed and Mae continued to approach me each time with the same story. It wasn’t until the fifth day when she rushed towards me in a frantic state “they’re stuck in the elevator shaft! That’s why they haven’t come! Someone has to help me! No one will believe me!” At that point I knew her family was never on their way. Even still I held Mae and consoled her while she cried; for in Mae's own reality her family was in fact, trapped somewhere.

When she looked out the window and waited for his return it seemed as if she would never see him again. The dog knew the sound of his car. When drawn away from the perch of her window seat, canine instincts acted as a fill-in.

Most of the time when she looked out the window it had something to do with him. At night when she couldn’t sleep she would watch the blinking lights of airplanes getting smaller until they burned out.

Her eyes followed and her mind wondered whether or not he was a passenger on the plane and if this may be true she tried with drilling determination to telepathically tell him how much he was missed. Her longing for him and sense of loss when he wasn’t there took over to the extent that when he was present she couldn't stop worrying about when he might leave again.

They were looking for a redhead to play the part, so I died my hair. I once had a friend who was up for Marilyn Monroe. It was narrowed down to her along with three other girls. “I’m the only natural blonde among the bunch”, she had said, as if that granted her precedence over the girls she was up against.
Marilyn wasn’t a natural blonde so I didn’t see the significance. I guess the casting director didn’t either because my friend did not land the role.

Either way, as I looked in the mirror at my red hair I decided, I’d lie and say it was an inborn trait. Who would know the difference? And more importantly, if I fit the description of what they were looking for who wold really care.

While paying partial attention to each other’s company, I noticed the band-aids; spackled along the hairline cracks on the ceiling. The height of the kitchen exceeded that of the standard household ladder. I wondered how my 65 year-old friend had managed to get up there. My gaze fell into her.

With both hands fastened around a large, muted-pink candle she intently watched, from her wrist to her elbow, slow hot wax dripping and drying. Breaking her focus I asked, “how did you get those band-aids up there?” “I didn’t do that”, she said while quickly looking up at me, and then back to her arms. As far as I knew she lived alone “Who did?” “It was my housemate, you’ve never met him. He comes at weird hours”. “Well, why did he put them there?” “The upstairs neighbor tries to listen in . . . the band-aids stop him from hearing”, she said.

Trying to make sense of this explanation, I asked her a couple more questions. But, by the time she grew defensive I realized; there was really no sense to be had.