I walked in three minutes early. Big mistake. It meant I had to endure exactly three minutes of them gathering near the microwave, pretending to talk about sports while sneaking glances at me like I was a ghost they forgot how to exorcise.
I poured my coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream, just bitterness—like the energy in the room. They were eating again. Massive breakfasts, always in a huddle. Eggs, sausage, biscuits—like they were prepping for a food fight they all secretly hoped would turn fatal.
No one spoke to me. No “hey,” no “good morning,” not even the fake polite nod. Perfect.
I sat at my desk. Opened my emails. Twelve of them, none originally CC’d to me. I was only added once things went sideways. Classic.
Then came the assignments. A pile of them. Reports that had been passed around like hot potatoes—now dumped on me. One even had someone else’s name scratched out. Bold move.
I didn’t complain. Just started typing. I made a game out of it—guess how many spelling errors in each report. I beat my own record: 23 in one paragraph. Impressive, really. Takes talent.
At 10:04 a.m., someone cracked a joke. Everyone laughed. I didn’t even look up. I knew the rhythm: tell joke, scan room to make sure the “right people” laugh. If they do, joke lands. If I laugh, joke dies. So I didn’t laugh. I don’t do charity laughs anymore.
Later, one of them called me by my last name again. “Smith.” I wanted to respond with “Agent S. Smith reporting for disillusioned duty,” but I was in a warrior kind of mood—minimal dialogue, maximum impact—so I just raised an eyebrow and went back to typing.
At lunch, I ate in my car. Peaceful. No performance. Just a sandwich, my thoughts, and Brando’s voice in my head: “The only reason I’m in Hollywood is because I don’t have the moral courage to refuse the money.” Same.
The day ended the way it always does: they left together, like a pack, loud and oblivious. I stayed behind. Tied up loose ends. Shut off the lights. And walked out alone. But not lonely.
