Standing at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables, I replay my session with Doctor Spit-Pen in my head. And the more I think about it, the more irritated I become. I call out to my daughter. "Jillian?"

Her little 7-year-old voice comes from the adjoining room. "What?"

"How you doing with setting the table?"

"I forgot."

I hear the front door opening followed by Jillian's excited voice, "Mommy!"

Megan enters the kitchen dressed in a business suit with Jilly-bean clinging to her neck. The ravages of the hectic workday have no power to diminish her radiance.

I greet her. "Hey, Babe."

She smiles and lowers Jillian to the floor.

"Never guess what I found in my lunch," she says.

My grin is me pleading guilty.

From her pocket, Megan retrieves a piece of torn paper, a printed photo from an old newspaper of an ape walking a dog on a leash.

"That's weird." I add the chopped veggies to a bowl of rinsed lettuce. "Wonder where that came from?"

Jilly-bean and I share a sneaky giggle.

                                                                                                 ######

The next morning at the office, I sink into my chair and sip my usual coffee. I open the usual brown paper bag and remove my usual blueberry muffin. I glance at my phone. Of course, it's 8:12. Right on schedule, I break my muffin in half and take a bite when my co-worker, Bernie shuffles into my office. 

Cubicle life has taken a toll on Bernie, most obviously in terms of his appearance. In the span of fewer than five years, Bernie has been transformed from an average middle-aged guy with a paunch to a man whose mid-section has expanded - how can I put this diplomatically? -  significantly, which makes his head and feet appear proportionately tiny. He reminds me of a Thanksgiving day parade balloon without the tethers. He exhales a heavy sigh. The heavy sigh is Bernie's signal that he is about to launch into another woe-is-me monologue.

"This place is sucking the soul right out of me," Bernie moans. He adopts his overly-dramatic look of anguish then turns his sorrowful eyes to my fiberglass tile drop ceiling.

Dunning rushes in, his arms loaded with bulging manila folders, which he dumps onto my desk crushing my blueberry muffin.

Bernie scurries away.

"Bailey really dropped the ball," Carl wheezes. "Can you take the lead on this? Damn, I need a coffee." 

I'm no doctor, but if I were prescribing for Carl, I'd recommend Xanax, not more caffeine. I rescue the remnants of my muffin from beneath the folder and say, "I'm trying to wrap up the McKesson--"

He interrupts. "We need an outline by Friday. It's the Trollamex thing. Big one."

Damn it. Not Trollamex.

"You can pull this one out, Phil. I know you can."

"What do they--"

He cuts me off again. "General statement. Practically boiler-plate. Need it by Friday. I'm counting on you to put us back on a go-forward basis."

                                                                                              ######

6:15. the alarm goes off.

6:40. I'm out of the shower. While brushing my teeth, I look in the mirror at the shell of a human being that I've become.

7:05. I select a necktie.

By 7:15, I'm dressed and staring at the toaster, waiting. When the Pop-Tart jumps up it burns my fingers.

7:20. I kiss my pretty wife on her soft cheek.

As I head for the front door I glance over my shoulder at Megan wiping Jillian's face with a wet paper towel. The image stops me in my tracks. Somewhere locked inside that efficient mother, is the beautiful, blonde-haired angel who made my heart race at the mention of her name.

I remember a twenty-year-old me pushing a nineteen-year-old Megan McSorley on a swing, her long hair waving in the wind. Holding onto the chains of the swing, she leans back, arching her spine, eyes closed, mouth wide open.

I stare in awe of the beautiful young woman. I can't believe that this magnificent creature could possibly be in love with me. Her dimples lengthen as she throws back her head, inebriated by the vitality of life, the joy of being young and in love. Her flowing hair tickles my face. The slightest whiff of her and I am a walking erection.

I snap out of my trance. Megan straightens Jillian's bangs with her fingers. She looks up at me.

"What?" She returns her attention to her daughter.

I miss her. I miss the way I felt just to be near her. I mean to tell her that... But I don't.

She blows me a kiss.

"Have a nice day," is the best I can offer as I exit, head hanging.

                                                                                                          ######

11:42. I sit across the conference room table from Carl who slurps cold chicken noodle soup from a Styrofoam container while reviewing the draft I cobbled together.

"This is too general," he says. "Where's the beef? Hell, their own PR nitwit could've come up with this."

I sigh.

"The sharks are out there circling." He makes a circling gesture with his plastic spoon, dripping soup onto my document. "Trollamex is depending on us to keep them away from the boat."

"Trollamex can't deny that they knew. Did you read these memos?

"Those are confidential."

I flip through the memos bearing the bold Trollamex logo.

"These guys knew that their employees and customers were exposed to their toxic weed killer, and they did absolutely nothing! Report after report. Dozens of people are dying of cancer! Lots of them are already gone."

Carl looks over his glasses at me. "So now you're a doctor? You can diagnose cancer from reading a stack of forms?"

"C'mon, Carl." I can't bring myself to make eye contact with him.

"Phil. Listen to me. These folks claim they're dying of cancer. Are they dying of cancer? We don't know. They claim that exposure to the product caused their cancer. For Christ's sake, we don't even know that they have cancer! I get headaches. You get headaches."

I shake my head.

"Trollamex is taking a responsible position and they need to get the regulators off their backs while they conduct their investigation. And damn it! We're gonna give them that responsible position. You with me on this?"

Gathering my papers, I start toward the door. "You know, Carl," I say, "It's a new millennium. No one's said "where's the beef?" in thirty years. They have new slogans now. You could try one of those."

He laughs.

"Okay. Get the hell outta here! We'll circle back on this mañana."