SoC Corridor

Sometimes in the wee early morning, I see him
in the SoC corridor. We see each other
quite often and not. His footsteps are familiar intrusions -
intrusions I am happy with, but not. His unshaven face, tired and pensive,
of logics and algorithms yet still resonating in his weary mind.

We know each other - by face, not by name
We never greet each other - yet we always do
His way is to the toilet, at the end of the corridor
passes me and my laptop, silent peers behind my back
Does my desktop fascinate him? I've decorated it with enough applications
just for him and anyone else that bothers.

The glass door closes, and the bleep goes away
I casually turn in time, to just see him turn. He will emerge
to fill his water bottle at the cooler - that I know.
And he will also spend a moment gazing at the still dark field -
a field where Others played softball and soccer in the day.

The door bleeps, and he is back - there is no one else but him.
Wet stains on his shirt I know without seeing - he doesn't bother
with details, except those in his mind
I get up too, to go
to the toilet - it's a periodic joy from work.
The floor is his and the wall is mine to eye, for we are
competitors who should never see eye to eye.

Which lab is he from? What is his area of research? Is he a PhD student? Is
he alone? Who is he?
He is companion and competitor.
In this silent world of intensive thoughts, of dulled minds, of unspoken efforts,
of meaningless toil,
He is fellow geek, friend.