Sally keeps a picture of a skinny Yorkshire terrier in a frame beside her computer. Most of the time it loafs in a niche in the corner by her mouse pad but sometimes, and these moments are rare, it'll stand regally atop her monitor surveying its fiefdom.  Rarer still are the days when photo is removed from its frame and tucked between the 8 and F6 keys. From a distance it looks like skinny finger waving "hello," although once I thought it was a bug.

Once Sally hid the picture. Or maybe she didn't hide it per se, but I certainly didn't see it when I came to cubicle for a meeting. The only other picture she keeps on her desk is of her niece Audrey, a girl I've never met but whom I was assured many years ago would be an "awful match" for me.

The picture was only absent for one day but its lacuna it left in its wake yawned from end of the office to another and people, even those who didn't work with Sally, maintained a position of repressed anxiety. People moved forward, going through the normal Thursday afternoon motions, but everyone was just slightly less fluid. Custodians, receptionists and executives moved in tense, exaggerated motions—some of them knocking over things, some ripping off too much paper at the printer, other tripping and falling over awkward, inappropriate phrases they'd never say otherwise. A window-cleaning crew moved in, poking through buckets of cleanser spilled by gawky accountants several times throughout the day.  

In many ways I've come to consider the picture the glue that holds Sally together. There is a sadness to her that can overwhelm one at times and it's reassuring—in whatever way I should be reassured-- to know that an anchor exists for her somewhere. That she has no children should come as little surprise and the fact she's adopted every twenty-something in the department even less so. Sometimes she even calls me "sonny boy," before ordering a thorough re-reading of my daily revenue report.

She chides us for not wearing gloves, dispenses patient albeit less-than-sage advice regarding our love lives and sometimes cat-sits for people on vacation.

Don't get me wrong, not having kids was a conscious choice on her part. She simply didn't want any and there's nothing wrong with that. But lately it appears that we, the adopted family of the accounts receivable department just aren't enough. At the age of forty-eight she's well aware that her chances for motherhood are slim at best. 

Sally is sad. Not pathetic, mind you. Pathetic is an upper-middle class teenage junkie. But the aura of sadness is real and it surrounds her always. Earlier this afternoon she told me about the frozen pipes at her house. It was like Debussey sonata.

We sat in the third floor lunchroom, talking and sipping weak coffee. We do this often, sit, talk, cvech. She does most of the talking and for the most part I'm more than content to listen. Today, however, I was in something of a mood (laundry issues, you don't want to know) and motioned to leave a few minutes before our break was over. In all honesty, I was a bit rude, it was obvious tell that I hadn't been paying much attention.

"Hey wait a sec, okay?" Her voice was cool, like a politician reading a statement.

The only other person in the lunchroom was someone from one of the collections departments and she was chatting breezily on a cell phone. A heavy feeling gathered over me and I found myself desperately wishing for someone else to enter. Facing sadness alone is one of the cruelest twists of the human experience. Like all of us, Sally faces pain alone every day. Today I faced it too. She offered me the picture.

She held firm between her thumb and forefinger, waving it as she spoke. She didn't explain why she wanted me to have it. She spoke of the dog in the present tense, and even mentioned an upcoming vet appointment. But she would answer no questions. She would only say that she didn't want the picture anymore. She stared at me very hard, there was something unmovable about her then, it made me want to start talking and never stop. I wanted to keep the stream of words flowing, to keep the upside facing up and downside facing way, way, down. But I didn't. I couldn't. And neither could she.

I told her to keep the picture then rushed out.

Later I reconsidered and she gave me picture. I taped it to my CPU but it didn't stay there long. Before the day wads over she asked for it back. She put in a drawer.

When I left, the picture still hadn't been returned to its original position. She'll bring it out when she's ready. When the ache subsides.