The Shoulder

His should was a subject of ridicule. Each day he would walk through the door at 12:57 PM, fresh off of his lunch break. He would walk down the hall to his desk, ignoring the stares. He knew. He smiled a knowing smile though. The other guys had even started a pool, what would it be today? Pizza? Maybe macaroni and cheese? One cried a triumphant, "Yes!" He must have won, for it was actually pizza. Pizza sauce stains had made there way onto his left shoulder. Some days it was clean, some days peanut butter, often it was strawberries, and many times it was chocolate. They thought him a slob though, thought they could tell what he had for lunch that day by what was wiped and left behind on his shoulder. They couldn't have been more wrong.

For every day at 12:50 PM, the man had two little arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and a little face pressed against his left shoulder. His son had eaten pizza that day, and the sauce was there to prove it. And occasional days before that he'd left something else before saying goodbye. The shirts he could wash, and the jeers could be tolerated. He knew that the hugs would stop one day, and he wasn't letting anyone take them away too soon.