“It’s sort of lounge-y in here,” I remarked to my co-worker as I walked past his office late one April afternoon. The room’s fluorescent lights were off, and jazz floated quietly from his computer.

He laughed.

“I feel like I should be having a cocktail,” I said, not joking.

I had been at the company only a few months, but seven years in New York had left me feeling in need of a change, and my request to transfer to our Boston office had been recently approved.

The knowledge that I was leaving made me socially apathetic at work, but I was slowly forming a friendship with this jazz-loving colleague. From my cubicle I could hear him address others with kindness and humor, and I became curious about this man and his disembodied voice.

I can’t remember which of us suggested Friday drinks in his office, but it was probably me. Cradling a bottle of rye, I arrived at his door promptly at 5 p.m.