There’s an old-fashioned globe that lives on one of the long stretches of black counter space in my office. The different parts of the world are colored like elementary school pictures- pink, blue, mint green, the ocean a deep navy. It creaks when it spins and is tilted on a peculiar axis. The first thing K does, as he walks to his desk each morning, is to stop at the globe, spin it half-heartedly and let his finger stop on a specific location. I’ve often wondered how many times he lands in the middle of the ocean.
Today the office was quiet and empty, the giant windows leaking in morning light and muted noise. I went over to the globe and let it spin, eyes closed as my fingers traced over the little bumps and crevices replicating mountains and valleys. When I opened my eyes, my finger had just barely made it past the ocean and was resting on Eureka, California.
