Purple Prose at Lunch

Around noon we form a line. At the sound of the 'BING' a woman retrieves her container. The next worker advances, closes the door on his lunch, and sets the timer.

The veil of silence is broken only by the hum of the microwave, and whispered numbers and codes from a cubicle nearby. We stare and await our turn while the Southwest Style Enchiladas rotate serenely.