vignette: suit

So there’s this man, right? So he goes to work, you know, just like any other day, wake up, wake up, brush your teeth and do the bumble shake, you know what I’m saying? Traffic is shit or traffic’s okay, it doesn’t matter because nothing really changes, it’s like that. So he gets to work, right, and his mind is blank except for the damn elevator that, predictably, will stop one floor short of his. Okay. He takes the stairs, as usual, and gets to the office and it’s like no problem, right? Except that, except that his office isn’t there. I mean, there is an office there, but it isn’t the one he works at. It’s some kind of law firm, the one with eight surnames on the door sign. So he’s confused, right, who wouldn’t be, and looks at the floor number. It’s his floor, no doubt, but of course, there is doubt, and he’s like, the hell? He goes downstairs and looks at that floor’s number, and, sure enough, it’s the floor that should be the one below where he works. By this time he’s one sweaty-Betty, you know, the kind that ends up with rings around his armpits, but he doesn’t notice it because he has to get to work. He’s late, he’s late for the rest of his life, or something like that. So he goes up again and stares, just stares like a madman at the law office that suddenly squatted on his office space. He just stands there and stares. Other people come and go, passing by, going to the stairs or the law office or wherever. He doesn’t mind them, he’s completely into staring, just staring. Finally, and I mean, finally, he turns around, goes down the stairs, waits for the elevator to take him down to the basement where he parked his car. He doesn’t ask the guards or the administration what the fuck happened. No, he gets in and drives home. He just drives home, you know what I'm saying?