Monday, 8:15 a.m.
The weekly agenda review begins in 15 minutes. I shove a random assortment of papers into a manilla folder: charts, graphs, projections. My Blackberry rattles across the compressed wood desktop, and I know it’s Greg tracking me down. Every Monday, he ritually attempts to siphon my contributions to the agenda review in an effort to dovetail into his own empty suggestions. Unfortunately for us both, I have been unable to think of even recycled contributions this morning.
Monday, 8:22 a.m.
I take the elevator to the lobby and shoot across the marble floors towards the Starbuck’s kiosk. My trousers vibrate down my right leg and I realize two things: I’m going to spend the entire day in meetings accomplishing little actual work; and, it’s been two weeks since I’ve had sex.
