Seventy-Five, Sixty-Eight

Farid was always cold. Lucia was always hot. Their desks were four apart on the third floor of an office on Grand Avenue, and between them, on the wall, there was one thermostat.

Every morning at 8:40, Farid came in, put down his coffee, and moved the number to 75.

Every morning at 10:15, Lucia came back from her meeting, looked at the number, and moved it to 68.

At 11:30 Farid walked past the wall with some papers in his hand. 75 again.

At 2:00 Lucia walked past the wall with nothing in her hand at all. 68 again.

They did this for four months. They talked frequently: about the coffee machine, about the rain, about the new parking rules. Never about the wall.

Then one Friday they arrived at the thermostat at the same second.

“Oh,” Lucia said.

“Hey,” Farid said. His hand was already up.

“Okay, look,” she said. “Deal. Mornings are yours.”

“And afternoons are yours,” he said.

They shook hands and went back to their desks. It was a good deal.

On Monday, Lucia was in the office at 7:40 with her coat still on.