He asks, not out of genuine interest, but as a way to punctuate the silence.
“It’s… going,”
I reply, careful to keep my tone neutral.
He nods, already moving on, leaving me with the lingering weight of his indifference.
It’s these small interactions that color my days, painting them in shades of beige and grey.
The pineapple, in its sunny yellow, seems almost out of place in this world.
Back at my desk, I stare at the computer screen, the cursor blinking impatiently.
There’s work to be done, emails to be sent, but my mind drifts to thoughts of escape.
What would it be like to leave this all behind?
To start fresh somewhere where the air is warm and the pineapples grow abundantly?
But these are just dreams, fleeting and insubstantial, like the scent of the fruit that clings to my fingers.
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