shu and joe

When your heads clouds over with plumes of dust and car exhaust and cigarette smoke, and the room feels like the inside of a boiler room, it’s comforting to hear a subtle, heartfelt song exhaled from the lips of your workmate. A Chinese ballad, half-hummed, half-spoken, not fully realized in the public realm of the office. He halts abrubtly when he notices I’m listening, coughs and stands up to leave. One minute closer to his one hour commute. One hour and one minute closer to ending the work day.