The woman who is meant to be seen—the one with the red lips who used to share the elevator with me works on the 14th floor. She struggles not to see me, for I often catch her eyes looking to connect with mine. The two men in business suits with sculpted facial hair who I now share the elevator ride with work on the 19th floor. They still do not see me. But I see them. I see them all, all those who are meant to be seen. I try to make certain they do not see me. It is my job to remain invisible. To remain in the shadows. It is the way order is maintained.
One of my co-workers has become so invisible he no longer sees the world around him, not even the people who are meant to be seen. He wears headphones most of the time, listening to what only he can hear, perhaps music or a book or the son
