Lost Dog, Please Call

It hasn’t been a good day. Yet another closed-door session with the boss, I told you to plug numbers in, he says, but didn’t you realize they were supposed to add up in the total column? What total column, I asked. You made me look like a fool, he says before swishing me out with his hand. On the way home, my car overheats, and we’re too broke for vodka so I have to settle for a six-pack. Yes, it should be an oasis, a haven, this apartment, but it’s not. Everything here looks like we’re pretending to be successful: oatmeal-colored build-it-yourself Storehouse furniture, glass tables, and torchiere floor lamps. We call it a minimal look, but really it’s because we don’t have anything worth displaying.

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