Sol, construction contractor, motorcycle rider, wearer of thick bifocals and a loose pony tail, is wheeling a plastic cart of cleaning supplies across the floor in front of my chair. The wheels joggle against the rough concrete, clattering loudly enough to invade the song I’m listening to. I stop typing to push the earbuds in a little deeper. The Donizetti Clarinet concerto swells to a particularly moving crescendo, giving Sol a certain theatric feel as he passes. Nick, who is either Sol’s inverse or sidekick, strides by, slowly swinging what appears to be a dirty white rag. Nick sports a handlebar mustache and is wearing a red plaid shirt. Nick is capable of going whole weeks without smiling. He looks at me and winks. Across the room, Shea slumps in his chair. Post-slump I can now see significantly more of Shea’s beard in the gap between screen and desk than I could before, which I take to mean that whatever Shea is working on is not going very well. He visibly sighs, which somehow causes his frame to slip even farther down in the chair. I must have zoned out for a second there, watching Shea because now Sol’s wheeling the cleaning cart back across my field of view. Did I mention Sol is wearing suspenders? Sol is wearing suspenders. This time he pauses, mid-stage, to pull out his phone, squint at the screen and start poking at it. My focus shifts, and beyond him I see Boris, who is perhaps the only guy in here who is always doing something related to work. Boris drags a window of sensor data from one screen to another screen. Boris is French, and I routinely find myself envious of his footwear situation. I have had serious discussions with myself that include lines like “If I went to France … I could buy Boris’ boots.” Sol pockets his phone and moves on just as Boris pushes back from his desk, gets up to moves towards the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. I steal a sideways glance at the boots as he passes. Glorious.