The Minutes of the Meeting

Nora had taken the minutes at the Tuesday planning meeting for three years before it occurred to her that nobody read them. It was that discovery, more than any grievance, that led her to start making them honest.

At first the changes were small. Where the agenda said "Discussion of Q3 targets," she wrote that Marcus had repeated the word "synergy" four times and nobody had stopped him. Where a decision was tabled indefinitely, she noted, with a precision she was rather proud of, that it had now been tabled for the ninth consecutive month. She sent the minutes out every Wednesday morning, cc'ing the same eleven names she always had, and for over a year not one of them replied.

It was not that she wanted to be caught. It was, if she was honest with herself, that she had come to enjoy the small, private theater of writing something true into a document everyone assumed was mere formality. Had she believed for a moment that Preston, her director, actually opened the attachment, she would have written something duller. Not until the company's new CEO asked for "a representative sample of internal communications" did anyone open the archive at all.

Preston called her into his office on a Thursday, holding a printed stack an inch thick, and Nora understood before he spoke that the last fourteen months had just become extremely relevant to her employment.

He held up a page. "Did you write that the budget committee has disagreed about the same four hundred dollars longer than some countries hold elections?" His voice was flat, the voice of a man rehearsing calm.

"I did," Nora said. There seemed little point in denying paperwork with her own name in the footer.

"And this one. Item seven was postponed because Diane's dog had, in her words, a feeling about it."

"Diane said that. I only wrote it down."

She had braced for anger on the walk over. What surprised her was that Preston was laughing instead, badly, one hand pressed over his mouth as though laughter were a symptom he could suppress through pressure alone. He turned the stack around so she could see the CEO's handwritten note stapled to the front page: these are the only minutes in this company I have ever finished reading.

Rarely had a reprimand felt so much like an audience. Still catching his breath, Preston asked whether she thought she could keep doing exactly what she had been doing, only now with everyone watching.

Nora considered this for longer than the question probably warranted. Writing for eleven silent names had been, in its own quiet way, freeing. Writing for an audience with opinions was a different, riskier kind of honest, and she was not yet sure she trusted the difference.

"I can try," she said, "but I'm not going back to soften the dog thing. Diane really did say that."

She returned to her desk and opened Tuesday's blank document. For the first time in three years, she found herself wondering, before she typed a single word, who exactly would be reading it, and typed the truth anyway.