Latecomers jostled politely for a place against the wall, standing in a glow of anxiety, reflected by the faces in a massively expensive, glossy table around which the others sat.
The face at the head of the table was expected, and familiar in every way except his light-colored eyes. Red-rimmed, they spoke louder, and more eloquently, than his words.
A reverently expectant silence fell, broken only by an occasional throat clearing, or a shift of hips in an overused, complaining leather chair. A chorus of expelled breaths added weight to the air, while an occasional nod confirmed that his news was not news.
As he rendered his verdict over the sound of released tension, mental calculators clicked behind smiles of relief. Their pockets would be lighter, but they would have pockets. They had a purpose, they had a reason, they had a commute, and a job.
Several employees headed towards the break-room to return borrowed chairs.
“Hey, Gregory! Too bad! You interrupt your vacation to come in for a meeting, only to hear your pay will be cut!” The speaker laughed, sardonically.
As he turned, Gregory’s dark eyes were solemn.
“I didn’t speak in the meeting.” His voice was low; his English broken by Croatian accents. “Many wouldn’t understand me. But, believe me….this is nothing.”
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 
