The Most Surreal Aspect of Returning to the Office
I returned to The Atlantic’s New York offices a few weeks ago. Our company is still several months away from expecting employees to officially return, so I’ve been coming in only sporadically. The experience of knocking my fob against the sensor and walking through the glass doors lacked the ceremony I’d imagined for the better part of the previous year. No one else was there. The snack area was empty, and mail was strewn by the entrance. No reunions, hugs, or running water.
The office has been mostly empty since last March, when the pandemic exiled us, and the untouched space was at once uncanny and familiar: tables with dried, wilting plants and dusty book piles with galleys of 2020’s most anticipated novels; desks with family photos of employees who’d since moved on.
At my workstation in the art department, where I’m the design director of the print magazine, I found a Post-it note on my computer reading “Empty—but only liminally, caught between Before and After. I stood alone in the silent, uninhabited space, and the scene around me felt preserved, almost petrified.
