I began to get frustrated with the note. No matter where I placed it, the sound was off. Or the position was off. Or both. It eventually maddened me to the point of deciding to watch an episode of The West Wing to cool off.

Staring at the quote, I rehearsed in my mind the litany of Machiavellian manipulations that had shunted this sorry excuse for a job to the forefront of my mindspace. Anger boiled within me, but also the power to focus my anger on the mongrel quote I was patching together. Like a computer-generated Frankenstein it rose before me, at once wretched and awe-inspiring, and with every addition, charge piled on charge, percentage point upon percentage point. I imagined the client’s face.

This is why you don’t make me angry, I though, grimly, as I hit “send”.

I began to realise just how bad my breath was, so I went to the washroom and gargled with Listerine, then brushed my teeth. It didn’t seem to help. I looked at myself in the mirror, then left.

I parked my car in the driveway, close to where the different colours of pavement divide my stretch of asphalt from my neighbors. Removing my key from the ignition, I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door. Down the steps to my basement apartment. Fumbling with the keys for a moment. Opening the door, crossing the semi-dark room lit only by a small window to the outdoor lamplight, I flipped the lightswitch.

I reached for my cup of coffee and took a swig. Something didn’t taste right. I wondered if the cream had been in the fridge too long and had spoiled.

I could not sleep. I kept tossing and turning, until I decided to stop trying. I grabbed my mouse, typed in my Windows password, and browsed the web for a while.