Milk & Cookies

The office was eerily quiet at this time. Hair dripping wet, Madeline settled down into her chair—her chair that was identical to everyone else's—and tapped the space bar impatiently to wake up her monitors.

7:00. Perfect. She had a routine. A routine she rarely deviated from. She liked it that way.

The familiar clanking of Therese's ice approached from behind. Therese herself would silently walk by—aside from the ice—dump yesterday's old ice water and fill her two overly large tumblers with fresh ice and water, never returning the tray to its spot because her cups didn't fit beneath the dispenser otherwise, and silently walk by, back toward her desk.

Slowly through the hour coworkers would trickle through the door that ninety percent of Siterra lumbered through, half awake. The door that Madeline watched with a certain level of indifference laced with curiosity, still noting who came in at what time. Was that their normal time? Were they later than usual?

Madeline did nothing with this information aside from file it away in the crevasses of her mind the same way she would when she was younger with other useless bits of information.

By 8:00 it would be a steady stream. With each click of the door groups of two to three sleepy-eyed individuals would emerge discussing their weekends in vague detail.

Madeline worked through her e-mails, diligent as always. For the last five years she witnessed a revolving door of new faces enter through that door, as well as faces that walked through it long before she did. For five years, her life was an hourly schedule she felt was slowly leaching the life out of her.

11:00 Outlook Notification

"Subject: A Childhood Staple and Lunchbox Hero

Colleagues,

These aren't just any treats; they're a childhood staple, lunchbox hero, and a symbol of Siterra pride and joy. Siterra entered the picture with an innovative blend specifically designed to integrate into their production process. Head to the stairwell for a snack that showcases one of many products Siterra has a hand in Siterra, we are always striving to make waves in the food industry.

Together, we are one."

She moseyed over to the stairwell and picked up one of the packages. It crinkled between her fingers. In that moment she didn't want it anymore.

Struck by sadness, she sought out the safety of a bathroom stall. Madeline put her forehead against the cool metal door breathing in through her nose, holding it for a couple seconds, and letting it go.

Madeline wasn't in a bathroom stall at that moment, instead she was transported to the bus.

Her thighs stuck to the seat and dust filtered through the cracked windows as the yellow bus barreled down the gravel road. Last ones to be dropped off, Madeline and Sylvie looked through dirt covered panes at their home that still reached over the ever-growing corn stalks still green with August heat.

Creeping to the edges of their seats as their final destination for the day crawled closer, they rushed down the aisle of empty seats with a quick goodbye to their driver as soon as the doors swung open with a *clunk* that gave the impression they might fall off.

Dust still settling, they practically leapt down the three steep steps that stood between them and the white rocks that would shift under foot as they raced for the front door.

The crunching of rocks as the sisters ran uncoordinated in growing bodies, their book bags bouncing against their damp backs, meshed with the rumble of the bus as it started its trip back to the bus barn, empty, saved by the driver.

With sweaty hands, Sylvie punched in the numbers on the keypad, pulling the door toward her—because the humidity made the latch stick—for it unlock while Madeline held the glass door open so she might work unimpeded. A duty they took turns doing. Not because they had to, but because that was always how they did things.

Cold air rushed to embrace them. They didn't notice it.

Young faces flush with youth and heat they bounded further into the house putting the straps of their book bags on the backs of the chairs. Something they'd been told to stop doing.

"Your bags are getting too heavy to do that. You'll ruin the chairs."

So they would be told again to put their bags on the floor. But that was a worry for later Madeline and Sylvie. This was now. This was urgent. The way that everything is urgent when you're young.

The next matter of business was shoes.

Tennis shoes: off. Crocs: on.

If they were fortunate, they wouldn't have to spare valuable time to change clothes. Today was one of those days. One of those days where casual clothes were both comfortable and appropriate.

With crocs donned, the dogs were uncaged and in clumsy fashion—dogs and kids—rushed to the kitchen's sliding glass door.

"Sit," the girls said in unison.

The dogs sat and looked up at them with the same anticipation they did every day when they were about to be unleashed to the plot of land they'd scoured every day for years.

Madeline pulled the door and they were off. Dogs and girls alike bounded off the wooden deck.

The shop door was open, the arena was empty, quiet with the closing of the day. Faster than them, the dogs slobbered at the water bowl and took off again once the girls were just barely past.

Their feet barely touched the ground. Their hair thrashed about wildly behind them as if it couldn't keep up.

In just ninety-five paces—running paces, because they knew it was 130 when walking—they would arrive at their grandparent's doorstep. Leaping up the elongated concrete step, one taking the rock garden path, stepping carefully on the larger rocks propelling from their jagged edges feeling every bit of it through the thin rubber material of what barely passed as a shoe.

Breath heavy from the sudden burst of effort they were once again met with sweet, cool air that smelled of beans baking.

Their grandma peered through the kitchen serving hatch, squinting to see better as if she didn't know it was them. A smile painted her wrinkled skin as she greeted them with a warm hello.

"It must be snack time," she'd say.

"Hi, mama," they would chirp as they kicked off their crocs and walked to the kitchen.

Now, this part they did have defined roles. Madeline always grabbed the milk from the fridge, the fridge that was thirty years old but still going strong, and Sylvie would open the second drawer down next to the fridge.

She had to be careful—they timed it—otherwise the drawer would scrape the fridge if it was opened at the same time the fridge was.

Madeline would grab cups, Sylvie paper towels, while they regaled their grandmother of the day's events. What "boring" thing they learned, or what "actually quite interesting" thing they learned. And she always listened to them.

They moved through this procedure with robotic precision, something they surely could perform in their sleep if they sleepwalked.

Sylvie pulled back the container's flimsy plastic, as if that could stop them. Pah.

She would pull the exact same amount, every day, an equal number of cookies for both of them, before replacing the container to its rightful drawer.

Madeline would pour the milk to same line. Both reporting the state of emptiness to their grandmother when it was getting low. She always made sure they had what they needed for this unhealthy, but harmless habit knowing that they would grow out of it eventually.

They would assume their positions by the window where the afternoon light filtered in, flipping to some show that would only capture their attention for the duration of snack time.

Steeping their cookies like tea bags, they would squeeze a cookie between their index and thumb, submerging it wholly beneath the silky white surface. They would monitor its softness with great attention before bringing it back up for air.

The sweetness sent their salivary glands to the moon. Almost as soon as they sat down, they would be throwing back the milk, wiping away a milk-staches. They rinse their cups and make for the front door to return to the summer's heat to play until they hear the familiar call of their mother hailing them for dinner.

With her forehead against the stall door, Madeline's eyes burned slightly at the sudden onset of the memory. When was the last time she sat in that kitchen with her sister?

She didn't know.

Time chugged by slowly, Madeline's mind elsewhere.

4:05 Printing the daily report, she left quickly, departing with a short *have a good night* to her immediate coworkers.

She collected her things from the locker room and made for the parking garage across the street. At the corner with a couple of strangers, the hot wind never ceased, ruffling her dress.

On sheer impulse, Madeline pulled into the grocery store parking lot. She wasn't thinking.

Inside, she scanned the aisle banners not often venturing to the aisle for what she was on the hunt for.

Crackling package in hand, Madeline checked out not even bothering to scan her member card before she was back into the harsh sunlight. She didn't play music on her drive home, but she did roll the windows down.

Summers were so long then. The sunlight stretched into the evening making the days feel endless. Now the days all blurred together in rapid succession. Tuesday was the same as Monday, Wednesday the same as Tuesday, and so on.

Just as she'd done as a child, she punched in her door's passcode and was greeted by silence. That was how she liked it. That was how she liked it right up until now when there was no 50's on 5 playing while her grandma bustled about elsewhere in the house. No dogs skittering over the floor, nails tapping on the wood floors. Even the sounds of the house were different; somehow lacking.

To Madeline's surprise, her eyes burned a little.

She would never again leap off the bus and race across gravel with her sister in stride. But at least she had this.

Madeline grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured a glass of milk. Pulling back that plastic, it was music to her ears. She pulled the same number of cookies they had always eaten and placed them gently on a napkin as if they might roll away if she weren't careful.

In that moment she was missing only one thing.

Pulling out her cellphone, Madeline tapped her sister's name, putting it on speaker and laying it on the counter.

With a cookie between her index and thumb, submerged in milk, she heard the line connect and smiled.