Gloria's desk had a pink phone, a cactus, and a picture of our mother from 1987.
She sat across the hall from me for nine years. We barely spoke.
Every Monday I'd check if she was there. Not to talk. Just to know she existed.
There was a dog's water bowl by the office door, hers, the one she brought when she started. Nobody ever moved it.
Her passport was up for renewal that year. She'd mentioned it once in the elevator, said she wanted to go somewhere she'd never been.
Her desk was empty on a Monday in October. I stood there holding my coffee, looking at the pink phone like it might ring.
I called her that night. First time in months. She was in Portugal. She sounded happy and surprised and like my sister.
I told her I missed her. She said she missed me too. We meant it, which was the strange part.