I know he works in the cubicle in front of the printers.

The workday is over, I am as relieved to leave this place as strange as it is depressed by the complete failure to be productive.

I go back to my flat, too exhausted to even eat, the night goes by without a dream. I know that I will be tired for the next day at work.

-----

The days went by, we would go down to the cantine together. I wonder if he finds my company reassuring, it was he that came with this arrangement in the first place. I wouldn't tell him, but I was glad that he came with the idea, I need him as much as he needs me, because I feel myself going a little crazy with every finished document.

I am afraid of the loneliness that this job causes. So many colleagues and none of them seemed to be tangible like people, they felt like shadows looming at the background instead of people, just waiting to pounce in any cup of coffe or unfinished doc they could get their hands into. I find myself uneasy with the feeling of eyes on my back all the time, but when I'm with him, it feels a lot more manageable.

Misery loves company, after all, it was fundamental for the workplace.

We chose a table by the corner, as far away from our co-workers as possible. They sat in front of their tables, only drinking coffee and staring at the white walls. The only sound of conversation came from us, and this is only on the best days, sometimes it is easier to join them in silence and hang up until the end of this break with our heads low, a proof of how draining somedays were.

He was already there when I arrived, I tried to focus on something other than the eerie people in the room, so I decided to focus on that Guy's face.

His attention was completely devoted to a notebook that he carried with him everywhere, even the bathroom. On one of the pages was a glued image that he used as a reference and on the other he would make drawings that hardly resembled the image on the side.

Today's image was a willow tree and its design was anything but.

Sharp, gnarled roots ripping through the arid ground, a sickly thin tree trunk with dead branches extending like pale fingers on the paper.

I wonder if he drew like this before the company or if he was influenced in any way. I don't know if I care about the answer, but one thing is certain, with drawings like this, he should be working for the design team. Anything he made would be way more suited to the true nature of this place than any publicity stunt they could come on their own.

I still remember the pamphlet they were handing on my gradution ceremony, I remember the smiling sun and the doll like character holding a briefcase with a huge grin saying "We need you". Well, the first drawing I saw of his was a reimagining of the add, what he drew gave me nightmares in that same night, but damn if it wasn't accurate.

Today was one of those days when he became so absorbed in his drawing that he noticed nothing else, in a world of his own.

I think I'm jealous of him for that, to be able to get out of here, even if it's all inside my head, because at the end of the day, when I come home, I can't stop thinking about all the work I'll have to do on the next.

-----

I realized that with the end of the month approaching, it seemed that the life of those clay figures that I called co-workers had been drained, even more then usual, with their faces now unnaturally thin, bony limbs highlighted by the suits and ties.

The air conditioning blowing right over my desk always makes me shiver, that and when a colleague asked me for office supplies.

The unfocused looks and hoarse voices accentuated by their tiredness. They invaded my personal space, reaching out to the bottom of my cubicle as if they wanted to touch me in the face, demanding pens of different colors, paper clips and sticky pads.

And it is not like I could say no, the moment I stopped complying with their demands, stopped putting the effort in helping my co-workers, I will be seen as a trouble employee who doesn't care for the success of the company. Not like I did, but I read in a magazine that the lone wolfs are the first ones to be fired during hard times, so I had to buy new supplies in a weekly base.

And the worst part of this experience was touching them when giving the desired material, the sensation was cold with dry, bony hands. Those sickly pale palms showing the blue veins reminded me of the protruding skin over an embalmed interior.

The feeling of touching those hands felt so familiar to me, as when I last held my father's hands at his funeral.