QUANTUM ROOMS

The boss said to fill the meeting room with sand. No explanation. No objections. Now, on some forgotten floor — the number scratched off the elevator panel — we conduct business among dunes. The fluorescent lights hum over wind-shaped ridges. Sand infiltrates everything: shoes, mouths, printer trays. It shifts when no one is looking. Sometimes we find objects buried in it — a stapler melted smooth, a tie twisted into a knot of glass. No one remembers when it started. No one talks about when it will end. We just meet, and work, and itch. The sand is always warm.