Sisyphus Happy

Sun beaming down strong through a cloudless hazy sky, the pitched whir of wheels starting and stopping, he stared forward at the break lights in front of him. Gripping the wheel, instinctively pressing the break to inch behind the car in front of him, miles of red dots stretch to the tall skyline, passed a sea of cracked concrete and swirling trash.
A news report bounced off his ears as he leaned forward, taking a drag off a shitty plastic vape. “Traffic on the 405 as LAPD blocked off three lanes to remove another body today. To anyone going through difficult times please call the hotline. Remember you are worth it. In other news the dodgers beat the yankees last night in a 5-4 victory. Don, over to you to talk LA’s chances at a world series appearance this season.”
He leaned back and exhaled, the break lights wavering in the hot air off the road. Lifting his foot slightly, the car began creeping a few feat up before coming to rest again.
Blinking yellow, the car in front of him pulled off into the left shoulder and came to a stop. His car moved forward slowly to fill the gap. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick flash and a muffled crack. He kept his eyes fixed on the break lights ahead of him.

Stale air hung in the parking garage as he walked to the stairs at the other end of the room half filled with cars. His eyes looked out at the choked streets full of shuffling vehicles inching along the muggy roadways passed high office buildings and closed down shops.
Taking another drag, he stepped quickly up the stairwell to the elevator on the upper level.

A ding preceded the metal doors sliding apart to the grey carpeted hallways. He tipped his badge to the security guard staring idly at her phone.
His steps echoed passed a few empty cubicles, stopping in front of the fridge. Pulling a small sandwich from his bag, he tossed it in next to the other haphazard items in the cool chamber.

Staring at the monitor casting sickly blue light across his thin face, the shadow of his glasses accentuating the bags under his eyes, he clicked to open his email. The Bremis Corp logo blinked up as it loaded the unopened mail. Some company announcements, a few messages he was only CC’d on.
“Sam, got a minute?” a voice came from the opened side of his cubicle.
“Yeah, Phil,” he leaned back to look up at the bald headed bearded face looking down at him, “what’s up?”
“Wilson,” he looked off towards the windows letting in the glinting sunlight pouring in through the series of skyscrapers beyond, back at Sam, “isn’t coming in to work anymore. We’re giving you his contract with Samson Construction. He did most of it, but we just need someone holding the thread.”
Sam stared back.
“Yeah, so he should have the files in his office,” Phil continued, taking a sip of coffee from a company branded mug.
“Okay, so—“
Phil slipped out into the row between identical cubes and shuffled away.
Turning back to the monitor, Sam clicked open a email. Something about a company picnic. Another. coworkers discussing something he didn’t care about. Another. The engineers’ structural analysis of the wall’s super structure, some figures and number he didn’t feel like parsing. Another. The company president linking to hotlines and the HR therapist.
He locked his computer, sat on the chair for a second blinking a few times at the reflection of his face in the black screen. He spun his seat and began walking down to Wilson’s cubical.

A few papers strewn about. Some paper clips linked together in a chain off to the corner. As he reached to pick up the folder, he glanced at framed picture of Wilson and his girlfriend, Mags, skiing on some mountain in the rockies last year, his smile stretching from one red cheek to the other under his pearlescent glasses, puffy jacket sleeve pulling her close, the snow overexposed behind them. Sam tucked the file under his arm and began sliding open desks for anything else. A few pens, month old documents, a picture of his dog, the stapler Sam misplaced last week, a few more pointless memos. He turned and walked back out into the hall.


The barely tasting sandwich slid down his throat, he put it back down on the crinkled ziplock bag, and moved his hand back to the mouse. Another email sat in the inbox. “HOT - overdue for weekly check-in.” He clicked it and sighed. Reading it, he bunched his lips and looked at his watch: 11:48. Opening up the engineering email, he downloaded the CAD file and the associated analysis, then took another bite of his sandwich.
“The steal superstructure… foundation finished last month…” he scanned it “earthquake resilience… tensile strength… truss something or other…” he closed the document and looked at his other monitor where a diagram of the wall stretched along a low resolution Los Angeles. He spun the views a few times, clicking on the dialogue boxes to see the separate layers.
Typing back a reply-all, “Looks good. Thanks! -Sam Hartford.”
He slid his chair back and walked out of the cubical towards the elevator.

A few chair along the wall as he walked into the room, a man sitting behind the desk checking his emails. Sam walked up and struggled a smile to his face “I’m here for the weekly half hour,” he said.
“Sign in, have a seat,” the man said eyes fixed on the computer as he tapped a clip board.
Sam picked up the pen and began jotting down his info. Yesterday’s names fell under his gaze. Sarah, Clark, Phil, Wilson, Cynthia, Hadley.
He finished filling it out, dropping the pen and sliding back to the empty chairs. Sinking into the prickly fabric, he instinctively pulled out his phone and began opening all the apps he had already been through an hour ago.
A text from his mom asking him how he was enjoying LA, if it was better than Colorado. One from his almost-ex sending him another recipe she was making. An unopened text from Mags. He went back to the home screen, absentmindedly opened the text app again, then went back to the home screen to click on the news. Suicide rates going up, the Dodgers winning against the Yankees, some puff piece about how the Bremis Retaining wall is a money sink for LA county. He opened the last and started reading it.
“Sam. Sam Hartford,” the man across the room shouted out into the room with only them.
“Yeah,” Sam looked up.
“You can head in now.”

“How are you, Sam,” a voice huffed out.
“I’m good. Doing alright. Yourself?”
“I’m doing fine. Now this may be uncomfortable but I have to ask…”
Sam looked around the room, a few chairs dragged into the center of an office overlooking the smoggy streets below, the shades pulled across, letting in bars of light. A communication degree on the wall next to a Bremis award. A picture of an older man with his grandkids rested on a desk pushed off to the side, the imprints of the desk left in the center of room where it had been. A few papers stacked neatly on the desk underneath a metal paperweight.
“huh?” Sam expressed.
“I was asking you if you ever thought of harming yourself like—you know,” the other man explained.
“No, Kyle. Like I said, I’m doing alright.”
“Okay. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
“I know. Thanks, man.”
“Do you want to talk about how you’re doing? Life and such?”
“Not really. I got more work put on me so I guess i’m already behind today,” Sam shrugged.
“Alright, Sam. I won’t keep you, but please, you can always talk to me if you need to.”
“Thanks,” Sam slipped out as he walked through the door towards the elevators.


Some more emails. A direct message from a contractor about the analysis. Other things that fell under his moving gaze. He opened his phone and stared at the home screen, a notification of a missed call. He opened the news and continued the article citing wishful climate change studies and arguing how government needs to fund more aggressive mental health efforts as suicide rates increase more and more every month instead of Newsom’s pipe dream of a climate change measure. Clicking back to the news feed, he scrolled down passed more articles about the new epidemic and sports results, stopping on an article covering the gun control debate. “Bipartisan support for decisive gun control measures to combat the national crisis.” Continuing to scroll he, stopped on another headline declaring an inevitable economic disaster due to loss of work force. He turned off his phone and leaned back, staring at the prickly textured drop ceiling above him. The blue light filters installed over the halogen bulbs.

“I’m gonna get some coffee,” Sam said, poking into Cynthia’s cubical, “want to join me.”
She sighed, slid her chair back, and stood up. “Sure.”


Pulling a mask over his mouth, Sam stepped out into the street, a plastic bag floated across the sidewalk into the street.
“The Great Bean closed, right?” Cynthia asked.
“Yeah,” Sam said as they walked down the concrete fissure between massive glass cliffs on either side of the four lane avenue. Frondless palm trees jutted from square boxes of dusty crackled grass.
“I think the starbucks still has some employees,” Sam stated.
“How’s Liz?” Cynthia asked.
“She’s good. Getting ready for friendsgiving next Saturday after she flies in. You coming?”
“I’ll be there. Probably only able to make boxed stuffing if that’s fine.”
“Yeah. That stuff is my favorite anyway, but like, if Lizzy asks, I love that welsh dish her family makes the most,” Sam chuckled.
He stared down at the unpolished shows walking beneath him, at the cracks in the concrete flowing underneath.
“How’s Bill?” Sam asked.
“He’s good. Still in Denver, but looking to transfer next cycle.”
“Transfer here?”
“Yeah. There’s a base in LA. Bremis does some programs for them, but I think that’s a different division.”
“Oh gotcha”
They walked along the sidewalk, passed sun bleached backpacks left piled up behind the bus stop. Sam unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.
“Did you… uh… hear about Wilson?” Cynthia asked.
“Yeah. From Phil though.”
“Oh god, i’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Not the first friend, not even the first from our group, but still.”
“Yeah. I texted Maggie; she’s staying at my apartment tonight until his parents fly in.”
“That’s good. She shouldn’t be alone today.”
“I asked Phil if I could have the day off and he just said if I wanted to keep my job I needed to come in.”
“Yeah fuck Phil, he’s a dick.”
“He is. Do you want to come over tonight? I’m sure she’d appreciate seeing you.”
“I guess. I don’t know how I can help, but yeah, I mean I don’t wanna—oh yeah see, Great Bean is closed,” Sam corrected pointing to the help wanted sign outside the empty facade.
“Yeah,” Cynthia sighed, adjusting the kn94 around her face.


“Just a large black coffee hot,” Sam said to the barista, “cool tattoo,” he added gesturing to the line art cat clinging to the barista’s forearm.
“Thanks,” they responded and turned to Cynthia.
“A grande mocha,” she said, “extra shot—two extra shots,” she added.
“Coming right up. That’ll be—eh—twenty two fifty six. You can tap right there,” the sole barista said turning around to make the drinks.
A few patrons sat in the nearly empty cafe. An older lady typed at a laptop with her index fingers, squinting at the monitor. Another patron, deep in their phone.
Sam tapped his phone to the register.
“Oh thanks,” Cynthia said.
“It’s all good,” Sam retorted, fumbling with his wallet as he put a five in the empty tip jar.
They turned and walk to stand against the back wall. Intricate murals of colonized land exclaiming the exotic origins of the beans.
Sam took a drag from his vape, offering it to Cynthia.
“Mint,” he said, staring at the hopper full of beans resting behind the glass divider on the counter.
She picked it up and took a hit.
“He… uhh…” Sam trailed off.
She turned to him, looking at the deep recess of eye behind the thick frames of his glasses, a few grey hairs poking up near where his side burn turned to stubbly unshaven cheek.
“What?” Cynthia probed.
“I mean like, he… uhh… called me last night.”
A faint glinting in the corner of his eye reflecting the dim amber lights from the fixtures in the ceiling. Indie pop floated above from speakers, the smell of dark roast ground up, the aromatics hanging in the air.
“He called you? What did he say?”
“I didn’t answer,” Sam stated flatly, his eyes fixed on the hoppers.
“oh”
“I was half a bottle in, forcing myself to watch some shitty thing on Netflix Lizzy said was good. I thought he wanted to hang out or something and I wasn’t up for that so i let it go to voice mail.”
“oh” Cynthia turned to look at the barista shuffling around behind the counter mixing the drinks.
“He left a voice mail, but then I finished the bottle and passed out.”
“Sam, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have know—“
“I guess. I just had to tell someone. I didn’t even listen to it.”
“Do you—like—want to now?”
“In starbucks?” he said gesturing.
“I guess not,” she responded looking down at the tile floor.
The striking drums and wavy strums of the indie band hung in the air, indecipherable lyrics flowing. The old lady closed the laptop and walked out, a bell jangling as the door swung. A hiss from the espresso machine.
“Large coffee and a mocha,” the barista said as they set the drinks on the counter.
Shooting off the wall, Sam scooped it up and started walking out of the cafe, Cynthia following behind.

The hot liquid scorching his lips, the tempered sip sliding down his prickled tongue, the bitter taste lingering.
“Just needs whiskey,” he chuckled.
Cynthia looked at him.
“That’s a joke. Sorry.”
She took a sip of her mocha and pulled the mask back to block the slaggy tasting smog from seeping into her breath.
“Should we invite Mags to friendsgiving?” Sam asked turning slightly.
“I think we should at least invite her,” she responded, adding, “I’m not sure when they’ll do the ceremony though”
“Maybe we should cancel.”
“Maybe”
They continued walking. Flashing lights of an LAPD cruiser parked along the side walk behind an ambulance. A black bag lying in the afternoon sun blaring down surrounded by two officers and an EMT. They crossed at the intersection, waiting a minute for the light to change.
“So the dodgers beat the Yankees, huh?” Sam offered.
“I’m not big into baseball, but being from Boston, a loss for the Yanks is a win for me,” Cynthia gave a faint smile.
“They say they could get to the world series this year.”
“Who? Boston?”
“I don’t know about Boston; I meant the Dodgers.”
“Oh that’d be exciting.”
Walking along, they came up to the large metal Bremis Logo glinting in the sun.
“I guess breaks over,” Cynthia said.
“Time to pretend to work,” Sam responded.




Sam walked slowly down the stairwell in the parking deck, the last rays of sun slanting in through the concrete pillars. Taking a drag, he made his way across the lot to his car and climbed in. He hit the start, and looked at the backup cam as he took it out towards the street.


A sea of red lights in the darkness stretched out unending.


Fumbling with the lock, he opened the door and walked inside. The one couch, TV resting on a desk from his old house, a console he never played on rested beneath.
Throwing his bag on the couch he sunk into the leather seat and closed his eyes. A stillness crept over him, puncturing his facade.
He picked up the remote, the matte plastic sliding against his fingers as he moved to press power; hovering above the rubber button, he looked at the black screen against the wall in the black apartment. The remote dropped onto the cushion next to him.
Blue light cast up onto his face from his phone, a picture of him and Liz at a company party greeted him, a genuine smile lingering on the pictured him.
Opening the messages, he opened Liz’s:
“Hey babe i just got out of work how are you?”
He went back to the home screen and stared at the small red notification hanging untouched above the phone app. Clicking into his stock app, he saw a wiggly green line and random numbers he glanced over.
“pfizer was a good bet,” he expressed to the empty dark room, his voice fading out.
He tapped back into the text app.
He typed out, “Was alright. Did you hear about—“ pressing backspace he corrected “was alright. Miss u can’t wait to see u in a few days”
He went back to the home screen, clicking on the phone app. The call log between him and Liz, his mom, a few work calls. He stared at the voice mail and the one notification waiting for him. He clicked in and pressed play.
“Hey Sam,” Wilson’s voice escaped from the phone, “bad time I guess, but wanted to know if you wanted to hit the bars. I know it’s a monday, but figure we’re young and dumb, right? Anyway, let me know. Bye.”
Sam put the phone in his lap and sunk deeper into the leather seat.
He got up and walked to the kitchen, flicking a light on to illuminate the sink full of dishes, the grease covered stove, the coffee grounds scattered around the coffee pot and onto the floor. Opening the cabinet, he grabbed a tumbler and placed it down on the counter next to the unused groceries. Pungent aromas leaked out of the bottle as he twisted off the top and pour a heavy amount into the glass, setting it back down with a clunk. He walked back into the dark living room and took a sip, the whiskey singeing the back of his throat as the smell lingered in his nose.
“Ah shit,” he said flatly, looking at the text notification from Cynthia asking if he’s still coming over.
Swapping his button up for a flannel and khakis for jeans, he grabed his keys and walked out the apartment, down the stairs, and back to his car. The GPS outlined the route as he turned the car on and pulled out of the spot.


Standing at the door, staring at the welcome mat, he could heard the ocean off to his left, the waves crashing over the beach violently, the salty air wafting passed his nose. He knocked, waiting quietly staring down the street towards the churning sea behind the artificial dunes.
The door swung open, cynthia presenting a friendly face.
“hey,” she let out.
“hey.”
He walked inside and avoided looking at Maggie huddled on the couch, two glasses of red wine next to an empty bottle on the glass coffee table.
His gaze moved over the tv, the bookshelves full of trinkets, the food delivery bag crushed up under the table, the half eaten container, a pillow clutched to her chest, the lamp in the corner, an odd shadow on the wall. He fell into the arm chair.
“Hi Maggie,” he choked out, turning slightly to her.
“Hi sam,” she responded.
Cynthia sat back down on the couch and kicked her slippers off before sliding a foot under her.
The faint sound of waves echoed through the room, the humming of the fridge in the other room, the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“I’m sorry,” Sam expressed, turning fully to her unmet gaze.
Maggie wiped her eyes, reached for the glass. She took a long sip, before muttering “thanks.”
Sam moved his hand to his knee, back to the arm of the chair, to his knee. He shifted his legs, crossing then uncrossing them. He looked at the blank tv screen, the small blinking red light in the corner of the plastic frame. His eyes moved to the vase holding a few flowers. There was a small stuffed turkey sitting against the smooth glass surface of the vase. A shoe rack next to the door held a pair of professional work shoes, two flip flops rested irregularly on the bottom, some boots next to it rested on the beige carpet. A metal strip stretched from the wall, dividing the tiled kitchen area from the carpeted living room. There was a table sitting just in the kitchen, four blue knitted placemats along the edges.
Maggie put the pillow next to her and leaned down to force a bite of chinese food.
The fridge had a couple magnets on it: a colarado mountain scape, New Mexico’s flag, a crab patterned with the maryland flag, a christmas card with some kids held to the fridge with a wine glass magnet. A fancy coffee maker sat on the dark granite counter tops next to a microwave. Pasta boxes rested next to that, with a few cans of tomato sauce and spices neatly stacked.
Maggie leaned back and stared forward. Cynthia shifted in her seat.
“why,” Maggie exhaled unmoving.
The cabinets were painted white, small black metal knobs. A simple square tile backsplash lined the wall behind the counters, the corner of a stainless steel sink almost out of view, a bottle of blue dish soap resting against the wall.
Cynthia leaned closer and wrapped her arms around her, holding her still. Tears clung to her cheeks. Sam uncrossed his legs and looked at Maggie, forcing his face to contort to something sympathetic, something caring, a feeling building behind his eyes.
A stifled sniffling above the sound of crashing waves.
Sam blinked hard, shifted his weight in his seat, his hand unconfident about where it should be placed. His mind churned through things to say, things to help, or mitigate, or console, or admit, or comfort, or confide, or acknowledge.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, blinking, wetness pooling in the corners of his eyes.
The sensation of the fabric of the chair on his fingers, the feeling of his breath seeping in and out of his closing throat.
“Why?” Maggie whimpered out, “why did he do it?”
The sound of the fridge deafening, Sam swallowed and adjusted his posture into the seat. He stood up and walked over the carpet towards the kitchen. A bottle of tequila sat half unfinished on a shelf. He poured out a decent glass and shuffled back to his seat. Tossing the glass up, he drank it, the sharpness tingeing his throat.
Maggie sat crumpled on the couch, Cynthia attempting to give support.
A coolness slid down Sam’s cheek, sticking above his lip, another streak down the other side pooling by his nose.




A beeping rocked him from a darkness. Sam rolled over to hit snooze on his phone violently asserting his responsibilities. He dragged the comforter back over his body, cold air scratching against his exposed skin.

Another beeping. He slid up in the bed, staring at the scant light peaking between his blinds. He hit snooze again. A darkness.

Beeping dragged him back. He looked at the time, the few unopened text notifications. Holding the covers right to his body, he sat up and began forcing himself to get dressed and ready.


“So we’ll need that report by end of day, Sam,” Phil’s voice wracked at his ears as he nodded.
Phil stood leaning against the cubical, a mug in hand. He took a sip then slipped back into the alleyway between cubes and disappeared.
Sam turned back to the monitor and began going through emails. Another reminder about the company picnic. Yet another condolences email. A chain of engineers bickering about technicalities he shouldn’t have been CC’d on. Sam opened his phone and went to texts. “Coffee?” he sent to Cynthia, before reading Liz’s messages. She was letting him know when she would be landing. “Can’t wait to see u,” he responded. Opening up the news app, he scrolled down, barely comprehending the headlines floating passed. A headline about the massive man made fires consuming the last sections of the Amazon Rainforest. Dow Jones up 6 points. The Pope decreeing that all suicide victims go to hell. He clicked the financial section. Some economist arguing despite cost of living skyrocketing, the economy couldn’t survive minimum wage increase above the federal $9.50.
“sure” popped down from the top of his screen. He pushed away from the desk and shuffled across the marginally patterned carpet.

They walked out passed the glinting Bremis logo into the scorching sun glaring down through the churling clouds of brownish smog. His shoes moved in and out of view as he looked down at the lines of the sidewalk just passed the same khakis he wore yesterday.
“You hear about the protests against the wall?” Cynthia cut through the thick air.
“no”
“They say it’s a waste of money and some people are upset that it will ruin the scenic ocean view.”
“I’m not sure six foot waves and the rusted husks of cargo ships a hundred yards out is scenic.”
“That’s what they say. Doubt it will come of anything, but always fun to see your work on the news.”
“One way to make the headlines.”
He looked across the street at a small crowd gathering in a semi circle outside of a high rise. His gaze followed up the reflective glass shell to a small figure set against the sun atop the building. He looked back down at the sidewalk.
“We could also get lunch while we’re out,” he offered, “I didn’t pack anything today.”
“I’m not hungry right now,” she said, turning slightly to him.
She inhaled, a prickly dryness through the mask, exhaled.
“Sure. I know a decent place,” she corrected, actuating a somewhat cheery tone in her voice.
Upturned chairs chained to heavy metal tables rested outside the Great Bean. A commotion from the crowd on the other side of the street, shouts and a few screams echoed off the high buildings. An almost squelching crunch. Sam’s gaze continued tracing the cracks in the pavement.

“It’s closed,” Sam stated as a question as they walked up to the starbucks, a paper sign taped to the door.
“The mexican place should have coffee,” Cynthia attempted to placate.
“Hopefully.”
The pair continued walking down the street, passed a slowly rolling series of humming cars and rumbling trucks.

A jingling above them as they walked through into the air conditioned interior, light guitars played overhead. A hosted looked up presenting an articulated smile.
“Hi. For two,” Sam said.
“Follow me,” the hostess said as she slipped away into the quiet dining room, two booths with a couple people against the wall in a room of empty tables.
She came to a small table with two dark stained chairs on the back wall next to the kitchen door.
“Menu is on the QR code,” she said pointing to a plastic stand holding a piece of paper.
They sat down, Sam taking his phone out to scan the menu. A large picture of a menu, zooming revealing the intricacies of the options.

“I’ll take a coffee and the chicken enchilada,” Sam said looking up at the waiter, whose slicked hair was pushed behind his ears.
“And I’ll do a coffee, too, and the… uhh… I guess the chicken enchilada also,” Cynthia said looking down at her phone.
The waiter smiled and walked through the kitchen door.
Sam looked at Cynthia, his lips pulling across his face, eye brows flexing to convey some meaning.
“So,” Cynthia sighed stretching the syllable to silence.
Sam nodded.
“Wilson’s mom texted that they’re coming in Friday. I guess that’s two back to back LAX runs for me,” Sam said, fiddling with the tape holding the napkin around the utensils.
“Right, you gotta get Liz tomorrow,” Cynthia responded.
“Yeah. It’ll be good to see her again.”
“It will. Not the best circumstances. The ceremony is saturday, so Maggie won’t be coming to friendsgiving.”
“Ah shit. I guess we should cancel.”
“Wilson probably would have wanted us to be together, he was always big on social activities,” Cynthia offered.
“He would have, but, like, I don’t want to anymore. Just doesn’t feel right to go from his funeral to a party.”
“I get that. Have you told Liz?”
“I told her last night; she was pretty upset about it and asked if I still wanted her to come, but she was friends with Wilson, too, so she should be here. At least for Mags.”
“yeah”
The waiter slipped through the rocking door, carrying two precarious mugs in one hand and an plate of nachos in the other.


A cursor blinked silently, unmoving in an empty email. His eyes unfocused, Sam sighed his slow breaths, fingers stuck on the keyboard. He looked down at the Samson Construction memo sitting next to his monitor, Wilson’s name on the cover sheet.
Leaning back, his arms sunk to his side.
Light chatter echoed off the ceilings, mixing with the subtle buzzing of the lights. Shadows stretched in from the blinds as the sun sunk behind the buildings towards the surging ocean.
He typed something quick, attaching a memo he finished hours ago as the clock ticks dragged on towards 5pm.


Red lights filled his view, the hissing of air circulating from the vents, a pop song cracking from the speakers. He inched forward passed another abandoned car, it’s windows hastily taped over with black plastic.


Sitting on the couch, breathing, the darkness pressed in, a solemn silence in the stygian room, scant lights sweeping by from the road, Sam looked across at the blank wall.
Blue light creeping up from his phone as he turned it on and held it up. He opened his photo album and scrolled down to last February. A group of bundled up people holding skis at the top of a mountain. A selfie, Wilson’s smile next to his own. Mags and Liz on a ski lift. The photo of Wilson and Mags he used to keep on his desk. A blurry picture of Wilson crashed into a snow drift.
He scrolled more back, a few years, to two young faces smiling in Bremis corporate headquarters’ cafeteria. A couple pictures of them eating crab on a pier over the water, Greg smiling behind Wilson. Sam stared at Greg, his bearded face so carelessly happy.
Wiping his eyes to clear his blurred vision, Sam rested the phone on his lap, tears on his cheeks.
“I miss them,” he said to nothing.
A restless feeling under his skin, he got up and walked to the door, slipping out into the dreary darkness outside, a few drops of rain into the night.

He walked quickly, his arms crossed tight over his chest, the sound of crashing waves growing louder as he moved towards the ocean. Street lamps buzzed, trickles of grey water dripping.


Sitting down on the top of the sand dune, a few yards passed the metal fence to block entrance, he looked out at the blackness churning beyond. A few structures sunk down beneath the waves, rusted metal and cracked concrete hanging above the torrents. Foamy crests smashing against the line of derelict hulls deep into the swirling darkness where the ocean bled into the dismal sky.
He sat still, the moisture of the waves spraying his face, the sounds deafening his thoughts.