For several minutes, he was silent, his eyes alternately looking at his reflection in the mirror and his reflection in the sink. He shoved his hands into the sink, a semi-violent gesture, cupping them together before soaking his face, and unintentionally, his shirt. His breathing was ragged like a lifelong smoker.

--Look at you. I mean, seriously, look at you. Hope you’re happy.

He tried to poke his reflection in the chest, but the reflection’s index finger got in the way. He ignored it.

--You’re fucking pathetic, man. Twenty-eight years old and already considering pulling the fucking trigger.

He let loose a miserable chuckle.

--Maybe you should do it. How could you say those things? To her, of all fucking people, to her?

He slammed his fist down on the countertop, and then again, and then again, and the jolts were comforting. He deserved the pain.

--Twenty-eight years old, and you still work here. Twenty-eight years old and you’re dating a girl you aren’t in love with. Twenty-eight years old and the only person you’re fucking honest with is your fucking reflection. You stupid piece of shit. You stupid cocksucker. Roy should have put you out of your misery, would have done the whole fucking office a favor.

He rested his hands on the counter and leaned forward, his forehead touching his reflections, his breath fogging up the mirror. He leans back and looks himself dead in the eyes.

--Okay, fucker, this is what you’re going to do: Go up to Michael and tell him you quit. That’ll be a good start. You’ll never have to see them again, and you can stop being a complete asshole to her. Dwight could finally be Assistant Regional Manager, that’d be good. Karen, she could go find some guy who’ll treat her well. It’ll suck not seeing Phyllis, or any of them, again. Mostly Phyllis, though. And her, of course. Mostly Phyllis and her. You’ll miss them, of course, but when it all comes down, they’ll be better without a fucking parasite like you bringing them down.

--Get out of Scranton. Get out of Pennsylvania. Go west, maybe, or the south. You’ve always wanted to see the desert, haven’t you? Course you have. So, go see it. Find out if you can really meet up with God there, or if you can really sell your soul to old Shuck at the crossroads. See if there is such a thing as either of those fucks. Just, get out of Scranton. And no Connecticut, that place is like Day of the Dead, fucking zombies filling every inch of land. NYC, perhaps, but they closed down CBGBs, so what’s the point?

--Maybe go to Peru, or Colombia. You could get a job with a cartel or something. They need good salesmen, don’t they?

--Maybe, go back to Australia. See if you can track down that dealer, get some of that opium, smoke yourself to death. Sound good?

--Maybe you really should just do us all a favor and fucking end it. Do a Hemmingway and suck off a shotgun.

--Maybe you quit being such a pussy and actually talk to the girl. She’s in pain, you fucker. Swallow your fucking pride, be a fucking man, and talk to her.

--Maybe break up with Karen while you’re at it. Even if she’s beautiful, nice, sweet, and smart, she’s not her. She’ll never be her. Maybe if you take up alchemy, you can find a way to transmute Karen into her, but you failed Chemistry, remember?

--Go back to work, you dumb fuck. When you get off work, swing by the liquor store and get yourself some whiskey. Drink yourself to sleep, wake up, repeat. Do that a couple days and see what happens.

He grabs a handful of paper towels and dries his face.

--Go talk to her, man. Just fucking do it, already.