cycle five: a new perspective
You have a headache. The fluorescent lighting isn't helping, and for some reason that section of peeling terra cotta paint over there makes you feel incredibly sad.
You're drinking coffee, and it's okay, but you suspect it would be going down easier with a shot of Jameson's in it.
Sally is bustling back and forth between Trevor's office and the supply room. What in the hell is she doing? She's wearing a pleasant conservative-looking skirt that is maybe two inches too short to actually be conservative. She had a complete breakdown two years ago when her boyfriend dumped her for a Filipino waitress, and the only reason you know this is because she told you the entire tale in excruciating, weepy detail one night about a month ago. You watch her compulsively pressed and polished figure whirl around the office and think about how she mistook your silent indifference for attentiveness, and how two pitchers of Sangria later she had tried kissing you against the door of your car but tripped and smacked her head against the driver-side mirror. It could have been endearing, but it wasn't. It was pitiful, and she knew it, and that's probably why she said nothing the entire way home, and has thrown you nary a glance during work hours since.
So she had a breakdown, and she probably told her story to Trevor - (you have no doubt it was replete with the same inserted sobs and restrained hostility) - except instead of driving her home when she got drunk, Trevor probably fucked her. She was shooting to get used, and Trevor can't pass a nickel on the ground without bounding on it, let alone a piece of ass, so everything worked out. Except now she thinks that she's convinced that she thinks she's in love, and Trevor, as he will explain to her, 'has enough drama with his stock portfolio.' Yes. He actually says these words aloud, because you overhear them. And when he does, you are positive that somewhere beyond human comprehension, the Gods are sickened by own their designs.
You have a new email. Your coffee is cold, but you finish it off anyway. This isn't real. You're not here, because you just can't be. You're not wearing this stained tie. Gregory isn't firing his pointed finger at you like a gun as he walks past your office. None of this is happening because people don't smack their heads off of car mirrors, and hike their skirts up under mahogany desks, and cry and laugh and operate like soulless automatons under fluorescent lighting.
This is obviously television. This is someone else's dream. This is fiction.
God, Mondays just make you want to harm yourself.