I was heading down the corridor toward my office, really a large cubicle, when I heard Peter Lyons, the associate editor, call out my name. I turned around and saw him approaching behind me. Peter was very tall, maybe six-five, and had a small, balding head.

"Just the man I was looking for," he said.

Although Peter was American, from Westport, Connecticut, he spoke with a British accent, which, rumor had it, he'd picked up after spending his junior year abroad in London. He also wrote in a pseudo-British style, which was especially annoying when he «edited» my stories, adding unnecessary adverbs and words he'd obviously pulled from a thesaurus. He was five years younger than me with three years less experience, and he didn't have a financial background or a journalism background. He'd majored in creative writing at Wesleyan, for Christ's sake, and it was humiliating to have to listen to his editorial critiques of my work when he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Morning," I said, forcing a smile.

"I was expecting to see your article yesterday," he said. "Remind me again of its subject matter?"

"It's a company report on Byron Technologies."

"Ah, yes, Byron Technologies," he said. "And what's their story?"

"Silicon Alley tech company, provide communication and remote-access solutions as well as support for various applications along multiple product lines. Lost two-forty a share last quarter, preadjusted EBIDTA. Pro forma earnings were a loss of seventy-six cents a share, missing the Street's whisper of a loss of sixty-eight cents a share, but the gross revenue number of six point two million was point four million more than what most analysts had expected. The company's burning cash and will have to raise money in the fourth quarter maybe sell some equity, possibly through a secondary offering, although in the current climate the prospect of this seems unlikely. On a positive note, the company has cut spending over the last few quarters, mainly by reducing payroll on their sales and marketing staffs and focusing more on the support side of the business, where their margins are much higher. The company's long-term viability depends upon their ability to reduce spending while maintaining their growth rate, as well as lowering their cash-burn rate, but the company is an unlikely takeover candidate because of all the debt on their balance sheet and because a great deal of consolidation has already taken place in their industry."

I'd said all this talking as fast as I could, barely pausing for breath, and Peter looked lost, his eyes glazing over.

"Sounds compelling," he said. "I certainly look forward to reading it.

Send it to me asap."

"Love to," I said, "but I didn't write it yet."

"Really?" he said, locking his jaw and exposing his lower teeth. "And why exactly is that?"

"My deadline's not till this afternoon."

"Those deadlines are for me, not for you. Didn't you see the memo I sent you about that last week?"

I always deleted Peter's memos without reading them.

"Must've missed that one."

"Well, it spelled out the deadline situation in great detail. In the future you need to deliver your stories to me twenty-four hours in advance of your ultimate deadline so I have adequate time to edit them."

"Gotcha," I said, fake-smiling.

"Very well then," he said. "Carry on."

In my office, cursing out Peter under my breath, I got to work, transcribing Robert Lipton's interview and outlining my article. There was no way Jeff Sherman could call this one a puff piece. Adding to what I'd come up with last night, I'd write a paragraph questioning Byron Technologies' business model, calling it «unrealistic» and "a throwback to the Internet mania of the late nineties," and I'd call the company's decision to market its products in Canada and Mexico "a fatal error."

I started writing the actual article, banging it out at my usual forty-five-word-a-minute speed, when Angie Lerner entered my office.

Angie was a reporter who worked in the office next door to me. She was very cute, with straight brown hair and a great smile. Although she was slightly overweight, especially below the waist, she was confident about her appearance and not afraid to wear sleeveless shirts and tight pants, which made her even sexier. Although she was only twenty-six, she had a mature, level-headed way about her that made her seem closer to thirty.

Usually I tried to find things wrong with women, noticing and amplifying every fault, but there was nothing wrong with Angie Lerner.

She was perfect wife material stable, down to earth, intelligent. It was easy to insert her into my fantasy of the house in the suburbs, a two-car garage, weekends on the golf course, two cute kids. But for some reason I always avoided the women who were perfect for me, going after the ones with fucked up flashing on their foreheads instead.

"Working?" she asked.

"What?" I said, lost for a moment, staring at her. Then I said,

"Yeah."

"What on?" she said, glancing at my monitor.

"Don't ask," I said.

Angie shook her head knowingly; we complained to each other about Jeff and Peter all the time.

"You know what Jeff told me the other day?" Angie said. "I'm in his office and he goes, "Your articles aren't nasty enough." He said I need to grow a backbone, stop being so wishy-washy."

"Why do we even work here?"

"For our great salaries."

"We could deliver pizzas or flowers, answer phones somewhere. At least we'd have our integrity."

"Do what I do just hand in the stories, and don't think about it. The most important thing is to get your bylines."

"Yeah, if Peter doesn't fuck them up first. Headhunters always ask me why my Journal articles were so much better written than my Manhattan Business ones. I try to explain it, but I get the sense they never believe me. It's like a convicted criminal swearing he's innocent."

Angie plopped down in the seat next to my desk. I asked her what else was going on and she started whispering to me about the latest office gossip Simone, who worked in Accounting, and Brad, who worked in Marketing, had gotten drunk two nights ago and had sex, which was especially juicy because Brad had recently gotten engaged. I was listening to every word Angie said, but got distracted, thinking about Rebecca, frustrated that I hadn't gotten rid of her yet. Angie must have noticed my agitation, because she said in a suddenly concerned voice, "Is something wrong?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I don't know. You just seem out of it."

"It's my story. I just want to get it out of the way."

I knew this explanation didn't hack it. We always had deadlines, and it had never stopped me from killing time with Angie until the eleventh hour.

"I'll go bug somebody else," she said, getting up.

"I'm not trying to blow you off," I said.

"Sure, you're not." Then, smiling, making it into a joke, she said,

"See you later."

I watched her leave, feeling bad for acting so cold. She knew I was living with Rebecca, but I had never talked to her about the relationship, and I wondered if I should. She was very rational and supportive, the type of person who always took your side in a fight, and maybe what I needed was for somebody like her to tell me that I had to dump Rebecca's ass and get on with my life.

I picked up my phone to call Angie and apologize when the light on my extension lit up, indicating that I had an incoming call. I was going to let my voice mail answer, but then I decided to pick up, figuring it might be a last-minute contact calling me back about my article.

"David Miller."

"Hello?"

The woman's voice was meek and high-pitched; I had to strain to hear her.

"Yes?" I said.

"Are you David Miller?"

"Speaking."