sad shock
A woman who worked in our building killed herself this morning.
She was always very nice. Really friendly. Although she worked for a different company, I knew her name because she was so very friendly and always conversed with us in the elevators or the halls.
She was very pretty. Blonde, buxom, always dressed in a way that got attention, but not in a vulgar way. Because she was so nice, I can’t imagine that anyone would have felt catty envy of her.
I rode up the elevators and escalator with her yesterday morning. We talked and talked about I don’t know what. In the ladies’ room she fretted that she was having a bad hair day. She always said that. I started to tell her she looked as good as always, but I hurried on with my day instead. Every time I went to get water or office supplies, as always, I glanced through the glass doors at her. Like always, she was there, serene and alone at her desk, complemented by the floral arrangement and the wall-length window. A refreshing change of scene.
When I heard the news, I was stunned and accused the bad-news bearer of lying. He assured me it was true. Several of us talked in quietly horrified tones. No one knew how or why. We didn’t even know her last name.
Then, I wanted to cry. But I don’t like to cry at work. So I decided that, for the moment, I would pretend it hadn’t happened.
I guess she preferred to remain tear-free at work, too. (Although someone said she was crying yesterday afternoon in the ladies’ room. I didn’t see — can’t imagine it.) I never would have guessed. I wished aloud — I offered one hundred dollars from my savings for the chance to go back in a time machine to yesterday, to somehow know what she was thinking, and to somehow change her mind. Yes, I know that’s silly. I wish it, anyway.
It’s so fucking horrible. She was here, and now she’s not here. She was suffering, and we never knew.
They put a white ribbon on the glass doors. The flowers are drooping. Everyone has red eyes.
