there's a dead plant on the counter

Refilling my water in the sad windowless room that passes for a kitchen on the 4th floor of my office building. Someone said the sun came out a few hours ago, I haven’t seen her for days. My eyes glaze over, to the sound of the trickle of the water fountain and the dead plant on the counter. Dry, not a single new blossom, a prisoner resigned to her windowless room that sadly passes for a kitchen. There’s rust on the sink and I’m glad for the glaze over my eyes. They burn slightly, either from the constant blue glow of my screen where I receive or send off requests to either circle back or touch base. Or it could be allergies. I keep the florescent overhead light in my office off most of the time. Better to sit in the dim and almost dark than in this dry, not a single new blossom feeling that crosses the bridge of my nose, brought on by the harshness of florescent overhead lighting. Someone from Sales or IT or Operations will make some comment about my lighting as they trot past my door, in a thinly veiled attempt at passive aggression. Something about needing to know I’m in my office. Someone water this damn plant. Would it kill them to put a window in this sad little room that somehow passes for a kitchen? The glaze falls from my eyes as my bottle almost spills over and I return to my desk in another windowless room on the 4th floor, forgetting to water the damn plant.