A rendering of a moment where action is present and remains interrupted.
The plastic seal of a yoghurt cup resists the pull of a thumb.
The fluorescent light hums at a frequency that vibrates in the back of my molars. It is a dry, constant sound. I am sitting on a moulded plastic chair in the break room of Elsinore Logistics. My thumb is hooked under the foil tab of a peach yoghurt. The foil is cold. It is stuck. I pull, and the plastic container flexes inward, but the seal holds.
On the table sits my phone. The screen is dark, but I know the sequence of the PDF saved in the recent downloads. Five transfers. All of them routed through the shell account in the Caymans. The digital signature is a jagged, pixelated “C. Claudius.” It is the same signature that authorised the new ergonomic chairs in the lobby and the black ribbons for the memorial service last month.
The hum in the lights shifts slightly in pitch.
I pull the tab again. The foil tears at the corner, leaving a thin strip of silver still glued to the rim. A small bead of yellow liquid escapes and sits on the knuckle of my thumb. It is cold.
The door to the break room swings open—the hinge squeaks—a short, sharp metal-on-metal rub. My uncle walks in. He is wearing the charcoal suit he bought for the takeover. His shoes click on the linoleum. He doesn’t look at the table. He goes straight to the coffee machine.
The machine begins to grind. It is a loud, crushing sound.
I look at the tear in the foil. My fingernail rests under the remaining strip of foil. The edge lifts slightly, then settles back against the rim. The yoghurt is right there. If I pull too hard, the plastic cup will collapse. The contents will spill onto my trousers. The charcoal fabric would instantly absorb moisture.
“Rough morning, Hamlet?”
He doesn’t turn around. He is watching the dark liquid stream into a ceramic mug. The steam rises in a thin, straight line before curling as it hits the underside of the cabinet.
The bead of liquid on my thumb has moved. It is sliding toward the webbing of my hand. I don’t wipe it off. I press my thumb harder against the rim of the cup. The plastic edge is sharp. It leaves a white indentation in my skin.
“Just the usual,” I say.
The sound of my own voice feels thin, like the foil.
The coffee machine stops. The silence that follows is heavier than the grinding was. My uncle turns. He takes a sip. He leans against the counter, his hip inches from the industrial toaster. He is looking at my phone. The dark glass reflects the overhead rectangles of light.
I pick up a plastic spoon. The edges of the spoon have small burrs from the injection mould. I run the pad of my index finger over them. Rough. Smooth. Rough.
“The board meeting is at two,” he says. “We’re announcing the expansion into the Baltic ports. Your father’s dream, finally realised.”
He smiles. The skin around his eyes crinkles, but the eyes remain flat. He reaches out and pats my shoulder. His hand is heavy. The heat of his palm sinks through my shirt. I feel the weight of his rings—gold and hard—pressing into my collarbone.
The hum of the lights seems to grow louder.
I look down at the yoghurt. The silver strip is still there. The phone sits on the table between us. The screen stays dark. The document is one tap away. My hand does not move toward it.
The weight on my shoulder increases. He squeezes, once, a brief gesture of solidarity, then releases. The cold air of the break room hits the spot where his hand was.
“Don’t be late,” he says.
The door squeaks again. The click of his shoes fades down the hallway.
I am alone with the hum. I take the plastic spoon and push it through the remaining foil. The silver punctures. It makes a small, wet sound. I stir the yoghurt. The fruit pieces are at the bottom. They are dark and submerged. I turn the spoon over and over, folding the pale yellow cream into itself.
The bead of liquid has reached my palm. It is sticky now. It is drying.
I lift the spoon. A glob of yoghurt hangs from the edge, quivering. It doesn’t fall. I watch it. The fluorescent light reflects off the surface of the spoon.
The phone vibrates. A notification. The screen illuminates, showing a calendar reminder: 14:00 – Board Room.
I put the spoon in my mouth. It tastes like an artificial sweetener and metal. I swallow. The hum continues. I reach for the next spoonful.