Drinking stale chicory coffee and smoking an imaginary cigarette. The florescent strip lights overhead throw sepia shadows instead of sterile office white. Slouching under a crumpled brown trilby and reading telegrams that tell me all the things I don't want to know. I throw them into the wastebasket and toss in the imaginary cigarette. Flames shoot up with a "FOOM" and I sit back in my black rolling chair. The telegrams are full of unsaid things, and should burn forever. Or at least until the janitor puts it out. The rotary phone I use to prop up my cell phone rings loudly, like it always does this time of day. I never answer it; I'm pretty sure it's me on the other end. Probably calling in a favor, or maybe I've gotten into another jam. I strike a match against the rough surface of the desk and light another imaginary cigarette.

The phone stops ringing. Problem solved.

The copper mug on the desk still has some rum in it, I think. I reach for the glass and sniff its contents with my one good nostril. A sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, and I freeze, my nostril in mid-flare. The footsteps stop outside my office door. Silence.

I take my chances and gulp down whatever's in the mug. It burns my throat and kicks my lungs on the way down. One hop over the desk and I'm at the door, squinting at the shadow of the person on the other side. I straighten my tie, clear my throat, and knock.