Another Day at the Grind (in progress)

Mr Sandman, he has a certain appetite for Janie in repose
He digs her pretty knees and that she is completely naked underneath all her clothes
He likes to congregate around the intersection of Janie's jeans, yeah
Mr Sandman the inseminator he opens her up like a love letter and enters her dreams
Little Janie wakes up and she says
We're gonna have a real good time tonight
- Nick Cave, “Today’s Lesson”

I said a silent prayer as I heard the familiar shouting out in the hall. Not me, not today. Please. My office door swung open, and my stomach dropped. There was no doubt that he was pissed. Although he stood on the other side of my desk, he loomed large and imposing. I looked up at his face, red and glistening, sweat rolling down his cheek and landing audibly on my desk calendar. He leaned in closer and closer, a fresh bead of sweat bubbling up on his forehead. A glob of spittle came to rest on my cheek. In my head I pictured it green and stinking, viscous and frothy. Sick. My face felt twitchy.

He leaned in even further, the relentless stream of insults and indignities coming out of his mouth, hot and wet. Mere inches from my face now. My eardrums quivered as the sound of his voice reverberated in my head, unwanted and unwelcome. Stop it! Over and over in my head, I repeated: stop it stop it stop it. I felt like I was drowning.

He spoke slowly. Condescending. Like he was talking to an imbecile or an infant. My face was hot, burning. Beneath a thick layer of stale halitosis I could smell the Subway sandwich he had for lunch. My arm jerked. Adrenaline jolted through my body. I felt lightheaded and sharp all at once. Clarity and confusion. I was drunk, I was sober. I was a bolt of lightning.

With a single motion I grabbed the envelope opener from my desk and lunged. I aimed for the face, but made contact with the throat. A gutteral gurgle, a choke. Time stopped and all I could see, feel, focus on was the red wetness splattered on my fist. Blood, guts, filth. Silence. I pulled the blade out and shoved it back in, again and again in a haze of crimson and fluid.

Not really. I sat dumbly at my desk, feeling my cheeks flush. My stomach went sour. I knew everyone in the office could hear him yelling at me for my incompetence. Again. I wanted to crawl under my desk. My bowels gurgled. "I'm sorry," I stammered unconvincingly.

He left my office and I breathed deep. My hands were shaking. I looked at the clock: 3:38. I was in for another late night at the office, another night of correcting my mistakes. Fuck.