Grace

There's a man commuting on a train, blended into a horde of fuzzy figures in gray, black, and white suits, sneezing, coughing, yawning, their dull eyes fixed on the ever-changing screens of their phones. He's in his thirties but looks fifty, a beer belly ungraciously folding over his belt, his tie pointing in the same direction. For the sake of simplicity, let's call him John.

This morning John had his usual pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs—something his wife makes every morning and he eats on autopilot, washing it down with coffee and a handful of pills because his cholesterol is too high for his age, the doctor said. Now he's on his way to work, reading about stock markets and such, scrolling with his eyebrows furrowed like an eagle mid-flight, though he doesn't quite know what he's hunting for. A coworker mentioned making an extra five hundred investing—or trading, not that it matters—and that was enough to make John curious.

John looks up from his phone and glances around the carriage, spots someone yawning, and yawns himself. Then a passenger nearby sneezes, a few drops landing on John's phone and jacket.

He's going to have the flu tomorrow.

John reaches the office at nine sharp, taps his finger on the scanner at the turnstile—it flashes green—and pushes his way into the elevator, already packed with people like sardines, only to be eaten by floors, first one by one, then in pairs, until John is left alone with Martha from accounting, who joined the company recently and whom he has never spoken to. She looks like a worn-out Grace Kelly. He likes her but doesn't know how to start a conversation—all the conversations with a woman he's had in the past ten years were started and ended by his wife.

Martha says a quiet hello. He clears his throat and nods, feeling his stomach growl and sweat rise in his armpits. They ride in silence for a few more seconds. Then the doors open and the office air hits him—cleaning chemicals, printed paper, the occasional whiskey burp. Martha goes right. John goes left. To their orderly cubicles, where phones ring, computers bleep, and another day begins.

For lunch, John has a chicken sandwich from home and more coffee in the kitchen. He eats alone, staring at the sandwich between bites, wondering if it will settle his stomach, waiting for an answer that doesn't come. He returns to his cubicle ten minutes early and stares at the screen. Then he opens Wikipedia and reads about Grace Kelly, finds himself looking at her photographs, and sees Martha—the way she looked at him in the elevator this morning and quietly said hello. He glances away toward the window, his eyes moving from building to building across the gray city, then stop at his own reflection.

On the way home, John can't look at his phone anymore—the letters, the numbers, the glowing screens give him a headache. Only Grace Kelly—or Martha—eases his mind. He rides with his eyes shut like heavy gates, repelling the spears of yawns and sneezes and coughs, the gray-black-white suits of the hordes around him. He skips dinner and falls dead into bed, his belly softening the landing. He's asleep within seconds.

John wakes to a bright light, lying on his back in sheets stained with ketchup. There's a chicken sandwich on his chest and a ticklish sensation in his belly. He looks down to find the source—tiny brown ants spreading from the sandwich across his stomach, eating through the fat. The belly shrinks. The ants grow larger. John sits up, finishes the sandwich, brushes the ants away, and watches them disappear into the ketchup stains. Rear Window is playing on the TV—though he's never had a TV in the bedroom. Martha sleeps on the other side of the bed, naked. She looks younger.

He goes to the bathroom to wash his face. The room has tripled in size. Two sinks—one for each of them, presumably—a jacuzzi, a shower, and in the mirror a different John: still in his thirties, but the kind of thirties no one should be ashamed of. Eyes brighter. Teeth whiter. Hair back where it belongs and gone where it doesn't. He returns to the bedroom. Martha is gone. He sits on the bed for a while with his hands pressed against the flatness of his belly, then opens the curtains. His eyes move from tree to tree and down to the blue waters of the Amalfi coast below.

He's going to be fine.

He climbs into bed for fifteen more minutes before breakfast is ready. The ants crawl back and cover him like a brown blanket.

He's now in the elevator going up. Grace looks at him with a warm smile and says hello. John opens his mouth to respond but the doors swallow Grace before he can speak, and the smell of bacon and pancakes and scrambled eggs fills the room.

His eyes are heavy. His body aches. Martha enters.

"You're late for work," she says. "I packed you a box."