So Charleston went to the one place that was certain not to feel like work: work. Since he never was at work at this time, work would clearly feel awkward and unfamiliar. Not at all routine and common, as work felt.

  The parking lot was empty. A random sampling of office lights had been left on.

  This, thought Charleston, is an awful waste. It is to be added to my list of questions first thing Monday morning.

  Charleston considered writing the question down presently, but if he were to work while at work, then work would surely feel like work. And this was the last thing Charleston wanted to feel. That was why he had come to work in the first place.

  Once in the lobby, Charleston realized that he had never before sat in the lobby. Indeed, during working hours, why would he? So Charleston, in the lobby, was seated. He sat facing one of the large windows that looked out over the parking lot. And although he was indeed sitting and watching again, as he did during working hours, the perspective out onto the parking lot was so different, so unusual for him, that it was undeniably refreshing. Charleston had never looked upon the parking lot like this before. Like a visitor. Like a nonemployee. It felt so great to see so unusually something so usual that Charleston could not help but presume that his all-around malaise this evening must have had at least something to do with everything looking lately the same.

  Then the front door opened.

  It made a squeak and a swishing noise.

  Charleston, a touch surprised, looked up and saw Helena Birnbaum. She stopped but two feet inside the door and proclaimed, “Oh. Hello…Charleston.”

  She has never called me that, thought Charleston.

  I like the way it sounds when she calls me that, Charleston thought next.

  Helena had red hair. Charleston had never before really thought about this.

  “Are you working late?” asked Helena.

  Charleston did not feel like explaining himself. So he said, “Yes. I am.”

  “I just left a sandwich here.”

  Helena had started bringing a sack lunch to work, so as to enable her to eat at her desk. Otherwise, the Thundercom phones would be left unattended.

  “Are you hungry, then?” asked Charleston.

  “Oh, no,” replied Helena. “I was just concerned that the sandwich would cause the whole lobby to smell badly, that it might go bad. Since it’s unrefrigerated and all.”

  “So why’d you leave it here?”

  “I forgot it,” declared Helena, confused.

  “Oh,” concluded Charleston.

  And as he so concluded, Charleston took a long, full look at Helena’s face. And as he did, both suddenly and unexpectedly, Charleston flooded with feeling for Helena Birnbaum. He had never really looked at her before, not closely. Not carefully. Maybe it was the new perspective out the window that gave him a new perspective on Helena. Maybe it wasn’t. All Charleston knew was that before right now he had never noticed the impossible and fragile confluence of her features and how these features cohered in an impeccably unique fashion.

  This, thought Charleston to himself, is the only Helena Birnbaum the whole world over.

  There might be others with that name, sure. But this Helena Birnbaum was the only Helena Birnbaum that has come to be exactly this very person standing right now in front of Charleston Sutterfeld. It was as though no one else anywhere and ever could possibly have just this face, just this smile, just these fingernails, just this laugh, just this desire to clean up her forgotten sandwich.

  Helena went to her desk, picked up the sandwich, and headed back to the door.

  “Don’t work too hard,” said Helena as she walked out the door.

  And then Charleston, before the door swung shut, said something most unexpected.

  “Would you like,” asked Charleston, “to go out some time…Helena?”

  It was the first time he had ever heard himself speak her first name. He liked the way it sounded. It was…different.

  Helena cracked a small smile.

  “Are you allowed to do that? With me?” replied Helena.

  “I am confused,” said Charleston, because he was confused.

  “You are the CEO,” explained Helena.

  Charleston had momentarily forgotten this.

  “It said nothing in my contract about dating,” explained Charleston even though he had not really read the whole contract all that thoroughly.

  In the portions that he had read, however, the topic had never, specifically, been addressed. And while Helena’s question surely should have become one of Charleston’s as-yet-still-unanswered questions, Charleston decided that he did not want to wait for the answer to this or any other question that came out of Helena’s pretty face.

  Besides, thought Charleston, I’ve never liked my job all too much anyway.

  “Anyway,” said Charleston in an attempt to be sweet, “you’re prettier than any contract.”

  Helena smiled. Not because what Charleston had said was sweet but because what Charleston had said was an attempt to be sweet.

  “When would you like to go out?” she asked.

  “Whenever you’re available, really. I’ve just got work, and all,” replied Charleston.

  “Well, next weekend, then. I’m busy tomorrow and Sunday.”

  “Next weekend, then,” repeated Charleston.

  On Monday morning, Charleston sat down at his desk, and twelve seconds after he did so, the door out of which Timothy Spall had come on Friday opened and shut. Then Timothy Spall’s footsteps neared until Timothy Spall stood in front of Charleston’s desk and explained…

  “Your contract explicitly states that you may not fraternize erotically with any of the Thundercom Employees.”

  Charleston was not even a minute into Monday and already he was being scolded by a man who did not even care about answering his questions.

  “I don’t recall any such stipulation,” explained Charleston calmly.

  “Page one hundred thirty-eight, paragraph two, bullet point one,” said Timothy Spall unflinchingly.

  Charleston stared blankly back at Timothy for a moment before picking up his briefcase, retrieving the contract, and opening it to page 138, paragraph two, bullet point one. As Charleston’s eyes grazed over the words, Timothy spoke in perfect synchronicity with the gait of Charleston’s reading…

  “As CEO you will refrain from any and all erotic fraternization with any employee of Thundercom Corporation,” explained Timothy Spall.

  “Your inclusion of this clause is unconscionable,” offered Charleston.

  Then it was silent. Then Timothy Spall turned to leave.

  Charleston was decidedly outraged. He could not quite tell if he was more outraged because a date with Helena Birnbaum meant a great deal to him or because he really wanted to spurn Timothy Spall.

  “Perhaps I will just quit then,” Charleston offered aloud.

  This stopped Timothy Spall cold.

  Without turning around, Timothy explained, “You don’t have that liberty, Mr. Sutterfeld.”

  “Don’t I?” replied Charleston.

  “You would be in breach of contract.”

  “And?”

  “And Thundercom would sue you for every penny we have ever paid you.”

  Then it fell silent.

  Timothy Spall stood so still that the cogs seemed like pinwheels.

  Since Charleston had worked for Thundercom for the past couple of years, he presumed that being sued for every penny he had been paid by Thundercom would equate to losing more or less everything he owned. Except for his chair and his radio, which he had owned since his time as an ESL instructor. And his briefcase, which had been a present from his mother.

  “For now, then, I’ll just get back to work,” announced Charleston.

  Timothy Spall resumed his stride back to the door out of which he had come.

  “But you had better hope that I don’t fall in love with her,” Charleston added after Timothy Spall.

  But Timothy’s footsteps were uninterrupted by Charleston’s proclamation, a scoff of sorts in their constancy, as if Timothy did not believe in love in the first place.

  Because love, thought Charleston, is more important than any of this.

  Love, Charleston thought further, makes a man stand up.

  Once Timothy was gone, it occurred to Charleston that he had, once again, neglected to ask the questions that he had recorded.

  Charleston thought for several hours about what he would say to Helena to explain the situation without seeming rude. He could not very well now proclaim to abide by the same contract he had earlier disregarded. Nor could he say he just plain did not like Helena. This would be a lie and would surely be considered quite rude, especially if it was taken by her to be true. He could not have a relative die because he had to pass by Helena in and out of the building each day, so he would have to commit to coming off distressed for a span of time. Although Charleston usually did arrive earlier than she did and typically she was gone by the time he left. Nevertheless, this was far too risky and elaborate a venture. Not to mention that she would probably still expect him to take her out once he had worked through his grief. So Charleston finally decided that the only real solution, which admittedly was not much of a solution, was to just not say anything to her at all.

  Perhaps, he thought, she won’t bring it up, anyway.

  Right then, for the first time since he had become CEO, Charleston’s phone rang. It made an old, metallic sound which echoed along the concrete walls of the eighty-seventh floor, which was all too real.

  At first Charleston panicked. What if this was a major business call? Or what if Timothy Spall wanted to know Charleston’s questions, some of which Charleston still had yet to decide whether or not to ask?

  The loud echo, though, seemed so loud and obtrusive that Charleston answered the phone on the second ring just to get the sound to stop.

  “This is the desk of Charleston Sutterfeld,” he explained to the telephone receiver.

  “Charleston?” said Helena’s voice on the other end.

  “Yes,” he replied, his heart shot through with a jolt of nerves at the sound of his name from her mouth.

  “Charleston, it’s Helena Birnbaum.”

  “Oh, hello Helena,” he replied doing his best not to let on that he remembered their conversation three nights ago.

  “I’ll bet you’re busy.”

  “Oh,” muttered Charleston with a half chuckle, “I’ve got a little to do.”

  Helena laughed.

  And then she said, “I don’t want to keep you. I just thought I’d give a call and say that if you would like to go out sometime this week, then I’ll be available then, too. If you’re available. Like after work or something.”

  Then it was silent.

  Charleston realized that his plan to say nothing about the date was probably not going to work. His heart sank low and sad in his chest. Here he was but seconds from finalizing his strategy and already his plan had fallen apart.

  So he said, “Let’s just say the weekend for now.”

  This way, he figured, I can still say nothing and if she doesn’t remember about the weekend, the plan might still work.

  “Okay, this weekend, then. You’re probably busy with work all week. I sorta figured that, but I just thought I’d check. So I did.”

  The mere register and ring of Helena’s voice softened Charleston’s heart and his resolve. Intellectually, however, he was certain that he had done the right thing.

  On Wednesday, Charleston was having lunch in the Thundercom cafeteria when Helena Birnbaum sat down across from him. She had on a blue sweater. She seemed hurried. She had a sack lunch in her hand.

  “I just needed a drink because I forgot my drink,” explained Helena, “I’m going right back down to work.”

  Charleston smiled awkwardly and nodded.

  “Are we still on for this weekend?” asked Helena.

  “Oh, yes,” said Charleston, his stomach in knots and somehow still hoping that she would forget.

  “Friday or Saturday?” she replied. “Or Sunday even is fine with me.”

  “How about Friday?” Charleston replied, thinking that Friday would be busier than the other days, and would thus be more conducive to her potential forgetfulness.

  “Friday. Okay,” Helena rhymed.

  It was quiet then for a stretch until Helena observed, “Your eye has gone completely down. The swelling.”

  Charleston had completely forgotten about his eye. He had not even looked at it, really, in quite some time. But as he thought about his eye and how he had forgotten about it, it occurred to Charleston that the maintenance man and the maintenance girl had met him when his eye had been fully swollen. This could explain how strangely the maintenance man acted towards Charleston. What must they have thought of him that he had a black eye and worked alone in a big, empty, humid room removed from all other people? Charleston felt embarrassed about how he must have looked. He wanted very badly to explain himself. Maybe this was why the maintenance girl seemed afraid to talk to him.

  As Wednesday came to a close, Charleston had actually, somehow, started to enjoy watching the cogs. It took a great deal of patience and resolve. Not just any person could do it. One had to build up strength, stamina.

  And what if something did go wrong? Then Charleston would be there. And he would…well…he would do something.

  Come Friday, Helena called again. It was but the second time Charleston had ever heard his phone ring. The sound was, again, loud and unsettling.

  “What time tonight?” she asked. “And where?”

  “That’s tonight?” replied Charleston, disappointed with himself.

  “Oh…if you’re available,” replied Helena.

  “Tonight is no good, Helena. I’m sorry. It is totally my fault.”

  Charleston did not know what else to do.

  “Oh,” said Helena.

  She had gotten her nails done that morning and had been careful all day not to damage them.

  “Maybe next Friday?” countered Charleston.

  “Okay, then. Sure,” Helena replied.

  “I’m truly sorry. It is entirely my fault.”

  After he hung up the phone, Charleston felt rather hollow. He did not know why.

  At 3:00 p.m., the elevator doors opened. Footsteps and a squeaky wheel came down the hallway and around the corner turned the maintenance man. He was alone today.

  Even though Charleston had not thought about the girl really at all that week, his heart, for some reason, dropped when he saw she was not there.

  The man went directly to work, this time starting at the bottom of the first cog, instead of the nine o’clock position.

  Although Timothy Spall had clearly told Charleston to leave the maintenance man alone, Charleston had seemingly countless questions he wanted to ask of the man. Like, where was the girl this week? Was she out sick? Had she been fired? Did she quit? Was this all because of him?

  Or something like, was her name really Maureen? Or, what did she hope for deep down in her heart? What was her favorite song? Did she have a boyfriend? Has she a big heart? Is she kind? What was the last thing that made her laugh?

  And even though these were the questions that Charleston wanted to ask, he did not ask them. Instead, he asked something entirely different. He didn’t even realize that he was asking it as he asked. The question just sort of slipped out, his voice echoing as loudly off the walls as his phone’s ring had on the two occasions when it rang…

  “What do these cogs do?” asked Charleston.

  …and he felt that, somehow, the unasked questions he had about the girl’s whereabouts, well-being, and nature were in some way the same as this question. It felt astonishingly good to ask this question, too. Like a weightlifter lifting. It felt so good that Charleston did not even regret having ignored Timothy Spall’s orders.

  But the maintenance man did not so much as look up.

  “Do you even know what these cogs do?” Charleston repeated himself as he rose from his seat.

  It felt even better asking this question a second time. It felt so good, that now Charleston really wanted an answer.

  As Charleston started toward the maintenance man, the door that Timothy Spall had previously come through opened up and footsteps began rapidly approaching, echoing through the eighty-seventh floor, a floor like any other.

  As Charleston drew nearer the maintenance man, he demanded, “I am the CEO of this company and I would like to know…”

  “Do not answer that question,” called Timothy Spall, walking quickly toward Charleston and the maintenance man, too.

  “…what do these cogs do,” Charleston finished his sentence.

  Then and only then, as Charleston was but ten steps away, did the maintenance man look up from his work and lock eyes with Charleston. His eyes were green. It seemed to Charleston that in this man’s eyes, one could see that he was indeed a simple, direct man. Charleston liked this about the man. Charleston almost smiled before…

  Timothy Spall placed a heavy hand on Charleston’s shoulder and pulled Charleston several steps back.

  “You are in breach of contract,” Timothy explained to Charleston. Timothy then stepped between Charleston and the cogs, staring contemptuously into Charleston’s eyes. Timothy Spall’s eyes were a deep, dark brown.

  If he could smoosh people down to the size of an acorn, thought Charleston quietly to himself, he would do so to me.

  “I am sorry for the disturbance, Merle,” Timothy explained to the maintenance man without turning around or even so much as blinking once. The maintenance man, seemingly indifferent, got right back to work.

  Normally, Charleston would be startled or even terrified by Timothy Spall’s enmity expressed. But in this moment, Charleston did not much seem to care. In this moment, Charleston had questions that he wanted to ask.