After Hours

I remember adjusting my designer blazer and smoothing my skirt for the hundredth time that evening. At 9 PM, the 47th floor of Morrison & Blake was nearly empty, save for the gentle hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere beyond my cubicle. Being a first-year associate, I was sternly advised that leaving before 8 PM was considered practically part-time.

"You're burning the midnight oil again?"

The unexpected gravelly voice made me jump up in terror. Lifting my chin from my overheated laptop, I saw Jim, the night janitor, who stood in the doorway of my cube, leaning on his mop. He was probably in his sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines etched deeply around his eyes. I'd noticed him before – it was hard not to, given how often I worked late – but we'd never really talked.

"Yeah, these merger documents won't review themselves," I managed a tired smile. "Living the corporate dream, right?"

He chuckled. "Oh, I remember those days. Though back then, we did it everything on paper. We played our share in deforestation, printing and reprinting drafts, I am afraid."

My fingers paused over the keyboard. "You used to..."

"Work in finance? Yeah." He shrugged, moving closer to empty my waste basket. "Twenty years at Goldman. Made it to VP of Operations before the '08 crash took everything from me. Including my marriage, eventually."

I turned my office chair to face him fully, merger documents forgotten. "I'm sorry, I had no idea." I said half embarrassed and half intrigued. I wanted to learn his story, but I did not want to pry into his life. I never liked gossip.

"Most people don't ask the cleaning crew's story." He smiled, there was no bitterness in it, only a harsh reality acceptance. "Say, you look like you could use a coffee break. I've got a secret stash of the good stuff in our break room – not that awful swill they serve you in that partners' lounge."

Our late-night coffee breaks became my favorite part of the job. Jim's insights into corporate finance were invaluable, but it was his humanity that truly drew me in. He taught me to see beyond the numbers, to understand the lives affected by each decision I made. I found myself looking forward to 9 PM, to the moment when his familiar footsteps would approach my cube.

What I didn't notice was Marcus, another first-year associate, working late one evening. Later, I learned he had observed our easy laughter through the break room window, saw how I leaned in when Jim spoke, the way I touched his arm while making a point. By morning, whispers were flaring through the office. He did not waste any time defaming me and gathering the cookie points of the best intern.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed subtle changes in the office balance. Lunch invitations dwindled. Conversations stopped when I approached. Even my mentor, Jessica, became distant, her feedback increasingly curt. I threw myself deeper into my work, grateful for my evening conversations with Jim, unaware they were the source of my isolation.

"Did you see them last night?" I overheard one day in the bathroom. "She's throwing away her career for a janitor, and an old one for that matter! Ok, I know she is single, but how desperate can she be?"

My face burned. I stayed in the stall until the voices faded, then rushed back to my desk, humiliation churning in my stomach. They were shaming me and tarnishing my reputation, without any consideration or empathy. That evening, I kept my head down when Jim passed my cube, pretending to be too engrossed in work for our usual chat. The hurt in his eyes haunted me all night, but I needed to take my distance to save my career.

However, the following week, despite my best efforts to avoid Jim, I found myself drawn into a discussion about hostile takeovers with him, as Partner Blake walked past the break room. The senior Partner was working late, finishing up a high-stakes acquisition and stopped by, concerned by the spreading rumors.

"Sarah? Everything alright here?" Blake's tone carried a hint of concern that made me cringe. Of course, he had heard the office rumors. I was about to faint, but managed to muttered

"Yes, Mr. Blake. Jim was just..."

"Explaining the Kaufman deal of '07," Jim finished smoothly. "Fascinating case study in overleveraged acquisitions, wouldn't you say, Richard?"

Blake's expression shifted from concern to shock. "Jim? Jim Morton? My God, I didn't recognize you! We worked together on the United Steel merger, must've been fifteen years ago. How? What happened? Why are you here?"

Jim just shrugged his shoulders and moved along with his cleaning route.

The office dynamics shifted overnight. The whispers took on a different tone. Instead of whispering behind my back, everyone, now, wanted Jim's attention – partners "dropping by" during his shift, associates lingering after hours. I watched as our quiet, meaningful one-on-one conversations transformed into impromptu finance seminars with most juniors and some seniors attending, casually, as if by chance.

I noticed Jim growing quieter, his shoulders tense as people bombarded him with questions about market predictions and investment tips, as if he were a fellow partner, expecting him to be up-to-date and offer valid advice. The wisdom he'd shared with me became commodified, reduced to sound bites and trading strategies.

One evening, I found the break room empty at our usual time. Instead, there was an envelope with my name: " They're transferring me to the downtown branch. My choice. Some things are better left in the past. Thank you for all our debates about market ethics and corporate responsibility - for engaging with the ideas, not hunting for stock tips. You reminded me why I loved finance in the first place: the intellectual challenge, not just the profits. Most of all, thank you for seeing me as a colleague to discuss ideas with, not a fallen guru to mine for predictions. Take care of that coffee mug. - Jim"

I kept coming to work early, staying late, and excelling at my job. But the break room coffee never tasted the same. Sometimes, I thought I caught glimpses of Jim in the crowds during my lunch break – a flash of salt-and-pepper hair, those familiar laugh lines – but I never called out. I understood now why he'd chosen to disappear again. Months later, I overheard Marcus boasting about a particularly complex deal he'd structured. "It's all about the numbers," he said. "Keep emotion out of it." I fingered the coffee mug on my desk – Jim's old mug, which I'd kept. "Actually," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "behind every number is a person. Could be a factory worker's pension, could be a kid's college fund. The day we forget that is the day we should quit."

I never told anyone where I learned that lesson. I came to understand that some friendships are too precious for the public eye. They should be kept hidden from the vying eye and treasured like gems. Their value lies not in their visibility but in how they change us permanently, either quietly like the water shaping the stone or forcefully, like the blast of lightning. That mug still sits on my desk today, a reminder that wisdom can come from unexpected places and that you have to be open to receive it, without any preconceptions and conceit. Sometimes the most meaningful connections are the ones we hold close, but are ready to let go if we have to.