"Heard you went to the janitor's funeral."
"His name was Charles," I said, loud enough for the room to hear. "And for eleven years, you all thought I was doing him a favor by sitting with him."
I took out the first photograph.
Then another.
Then the notebook.
"His name was Charles."
***
The room slowly began to grow quiet.
Advertisement
I didn't give a speech.
I didn't need to.
I just let them look. The photos. The dates. The small, careful sentences in handwriting that had documented eleven years of a life most of them had never bothered to notice belonged to a real person sitting two tables away.
One by one, the jokes nobody was making anymore turned into something closer to silence.
A few people looked away.
I didn't give a speech.
***
One woman, who had made more comments than most, picked up the photo from my promotion day and just stared at it for a long moment before setting it back down without a word.
