Personal Space

I have never been one to be easily irritated. Working in an office cubicle, surrounded by the cacophony that is the clicking of pens, the snaps of staplers, and the grinding sound of bum wheels dragging across the dirty carpet, the time to get annoyed would have long passed. Nevertheless, the woman that inherited the cubicle across from mine got under my skin almost immediately. Her breathing was uneven and oddly quick, her keystrokes rapid and asynchronous, and her chair seemed unable to remain stationary.

I kept my thoughts to myself, until she stood up to peer over the cubicle wall and said, “Stop spying on me.”

I was about to open the bottle of my rage, when she sat back down in her chair, picking up a pen and incessantly clicking it. Over the course of the next few days, similar incidents occurred, in which the woman accused me of spying. I hopelessly tried to block her out.

One day, I heard the barely audible sound of her crying. As far as I knew, this was the first time she had ever done so, and I walked around to her desk to ask if everything was okay. She nodded, but I knew she was lying, so I stayed with her for a while after. During that time, she never once complained about my presence, so the following day, I requested to switch my cubicle with the one next to hers. My wish was granted, and it wasn’t long before I began having simple conversations with the woman. She never mentioned or related anything to her personal life, so I didn’t bring it up.

I began to see the padded wall between us as what it was: a barrier. I decided to disconnect the wall between us from the mini-maze of cubicle dividers. I didn’t receive pushback from any of my co-workers, and as long as my work was as productive as ever, my supervisor turned a blind eye. My hushed-whisper conversations with the lady became longer and occurred more frequently. Then one Friday (I remember this vividly), she showed up to work, and something was wrong. This would be the last day I saw her.

Over our prior conversations, the lady’s mannerisms grew more relaxed and subtle, but today, it was like she had reverted to the version of herself that I had initially met. She was silent and trembling as she carried out her typical duties. Finally, as if to provide a climax to the day, she stood up and left the office. There was still several hours until her shift ended, and even more so until mine, but I got up and followed her anyway. She stopped at her car, a gray Ford sedan, and jabbed a hand into her pocket, searching for her keys.

“Is everything okay?” It was one of those questions that you know the answer to, but feel compelled to ask anyway.

The lady responded by breaking into tears. I didn’t ask for the details, as they seemed nothing more than that. I drove the lady to the house she called her home and, after checking to make sure she was alright (to which she responded with dry-faced sincerity), I left. In hindsight, I should have driven her home in my car, but I was okay walking back to the office. By the time I got there, my shift would have been over as well, and a complaint on my desk, but my job was the last thing on my mind.

I didn’t hear from the lady over the weekend, and she didn’t show up to work the following Monday. Nor did she show up to work the days after. On numerous occasions, someone tried to set the cubicle divider back up, but I protested. It was my way of leaving the door open, should she ever return.