The time is six in the morning. Fifteen minutes later I get dressed and eat my two slices of toast, one is perfectly gold and the other is not, which bothers me a little, but it’s too minor for me to care. The time is now six fourty-five. I allot myself fifteen minutes each morning to read the morning news. I’m walking out the door of my one-bedroom apartment at seven. The apartment complex I rent from is four blocks southeast of my work. It takes me another twenty minutes to walk through the front door of the office building. I always prefer to arrive ten minutes early to give myself time to deal with any issues or questions from the previous day.

I reach my cubicle and my lame excuse for a desk. My pencil and pen jars were moved over the weekend. About two inches to the right, I estimate. By who I don’t know but I get overly irritated about it and fix the problem. My day has already had two issues. They were minor, but still, two is unusual for me.
I sit down in my creaky office chair knowing that this is the last day I will ever have to use this tiny space. My superior recently retired and I am first in line to take her place. I look over at the clock on my desk, it’s seven twenty-eight. I get up and leave for my morning meeting, but it's more of a congratulatory meeting with my new superiors where I formally receive my promotion.

My phone vibrates. I pull it out of my left pocket to see the notification I just received. It’s a breaking news article titled “Roger Lee Arrested on Money Laundering Charges.” I always get notifications regarding breaking news, but most of the time I just ignore those articles as they are never relevant to my life. So I put the phone back in my pocket and keep walking to my meeting. It was now seven twenty-nine. As I approach the door of the meeting room, I am surprised to see my new boss waiting at the door with a facial expression that I can’t quite place. Is it a look of concern? Or maybe it’s disappointment? Either way, I keep walking toward the door.

“Morning, David”
“No need to walk in, Pete.”
“Why?”
“I’m canceling our meeting.”
“Is there a conflict?”
“You could say that.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Have you looked at the news?”
“No, but I received a notification regarding a man charged with money laundering?”
“Yeah. That’s the conflict.”

It took me a second to understand what I was just told. I pulled my phone out hastily and fumbled it around before I got a good grip to was able to reread the title of that article I had seen. I knew I read the title right the first time but I didn’t make the connection that it was THAT Roger Lee. I work for a smaller auto insurance firm with only about six-hundred employees. Our CEO works out of New York and his name happens to be Roger Lee.

The only thing I can say is “Oh…”

I start to run through the ramifications of this unexpected development. The stock of our company would plummet and with that comes actions to keep the company afloat. Lowering the number of employees often comes first to reduce the company’s expenses. Thoughts race through my head. Will I get let go? Of course not, I hold one of the higher positions in the company. But what if I do? Then what? I plan my life around this job. If I lose it, I’m screwed.

In the weeks that followed, I only focused on the possibility of getting laid off. I spent countless hours researching new job opportunities around Portland rather than doing actual work. What does it matter if I continue doing my actual job, I’m bound to lose it at some point. I already had my resume ready to submit to other companies on the slim chance that I don’t get fired.

Roger Lee was tried and found guilty of all accusations, and the company did exactly what I had expected. I wasn’t the first to go, but the day came when I was called into my bosses office and received the gut-wrenching news.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I hate to this, I really do.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m not surprised. Thanks for keeping me in the company for this long.”

As I got up and left, a quick thought came mind. I turn around to face my boss, noticing a stapler on his desk that’s within arm’s reach. I could take his job, frame it as a suicide. But how would I take care of fingerprints, or hide my motive? Fear quickly replaces my thoughts. I don’t want to do that. I guess the new medication isn’t working. Or maybe I need a new therapist. No, I like my therapist, I’ll talk to her about changing the medication.

“Something wrong?”

I look away from the staple and make eye contact with him “No, sorry, I’ll be on my way.” But what if… no, just, no.

I walk out the front doors of the office building and make my way back to my apartment. I should’ve done it. No, I definitely should not have done it. Why, or maybe the question is how,  did I develop this stupid disorder? I don’t even know the answer. I’ve never had any trauma in my life. Nothing I’ve seen or done, at least nothing I can recall, could have triggered it. I guess it doesn’t really matter, I’m stuck with it and that’s that. I just have learn to live with it which is not an easy task I suppose.

I take off my shoes as I walk into the front hall of my apartment. I make my way to my couch and open up the laptop that’s sitting on the coffee table. I get to work submitting my resume to other companies that need people in sales. I then close the laptop and release a sigh.

“And now I wait.”

— — — — —

            My heartbeat quickens as I await my upcoming interview. I’m sitting in one of those poorly cushioned chairs that you’d find in a doctor’s office. There are three other people in the room with me. They all have the same nervous look on their face. I assume I do as well. I lean my head forward, letting it hang mostly limp. I’ve been telling myself all morning that calmness is the key to success. But right now, calmness isn’t the easiest thing to come by.
            I, as well as everyone else in the room, hear the door creak open. I turn my head to the right to face the now open door. A man walks out with a confident grin on his. He must have done well. A woman follows him out, she’s probably the one interviewing everyone. I look up at her with eagerness.
            “Petra?”
            Thought she was about to say Peter. Guess I’m waiting another twenty minutes. But what if she never gets to me? What if I’m not on the list of interviewees? Did I make a scheduling error? Is my interview actually tomorrow? I pull out my phone to check my confirmation email. Nope, it's today. They gave me a time frame to show up and here I am. I look up the clock even though I know what time it is. Nervous habit I guess. I reach for my neck to adjust my tie. I adjust my watch so that it fits snugly around my wrist. I check the clock again hoping that the thirty seconds that just past were actually fifteen minutes. I stared at the red line spin as it makes a full revolution, wishing that I either didn’t have to do this or that I could just do it right here, right now. I take my gaze away from the clock and look around the room. It’s a small waiting room, something about the size of a two-car garage. The desk to sign-in sits closest to the room’s entrance and exit which is a pair of wooden double doors. White linoleum tiles line the floor and the walls are painted a cream color. Small windows are spaced evenly along the wall across from me and the ceiling is anything special, either. Just a white popcorn ceiling with a few fluorescent strip lights. I rub my eyes with my hands. The door opens again. That was faster than the last one.

            “Thank you so much.” The girl named Petra is look over her shoulder as she leaves the interview room.
            “No, thank you. It was a pleasure talking to you.” The interviewer follows closely behind.
            “Likewise. Alright, have a good one.”
            “You as well.”
            Petra walks past me and the only other person waiting, waves and the lady sitting at the sign-in desk, and exits the room.
            My gaze remains on the double doors as the view of what lies beyond disappears.
            “Peter?”
            My mind snaps back to the real world and I turn to face the voice. It’s the interviewer.
            “That’s me.” I raise my left hand in a shy manner.
            “Could you please follow me?”
            “Sure.” I make eye contact with the other man in the room. I can tell he’s wishing me good luck, it’s written all over his nervous face. I raise my eyebrows as a gesture of thanks.
            I get up and follow behind my interviewer. The door closes behind me and the woman has moved herself to the opposite side of the long conference table that is situated in the middle of the room. A stack of papers sits in front her. She’s still standing, so I make my way to the chair directly opposite her. She’s pretty. Not even that, she’s gorgeous. Her black dress fits comfortably around her slim body. Her hair. Oh, her hair. Its slightly faded red coloring glistens from the afternoon sun that’s shining through room’s windows. Don’t objectify her. Her face, while probably covered in copious amounts of makeup, is perfection. I make eye contact with her. It feels as if her deep green eyes are staring into my soul. What I’d do for a woman like her. I think I’d do anything. I don’t think I would. I notice her wedding ring. Does that really matter? I could make her my own. Take her and run off into the sunset. Why is this what I’m thinking about? As my glance moves back up to her eyes, I see that her cherry lips are moving but I can make out what she’s saying. My thoughts are cut off when she moves her head and hands in attempt to get my attention. Sound rushes into my ears as I’m shoved back to the present.
            “Hello? Peter? Are you okay?”
            I shake my head. “No no, everything’s fine. Sorry.”
            She gives me a concerned look and then reaches out her hand so that I may shake it. Not a great first impression.
“My name is Leanne Proctor and I’ll be interviewing you today. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say.
As I grasp her hand, I think about everything that could be. I imagine sitting on the beach in Malibu, the two of us sharing a beach chair. I don’t even want to live in Malibu. Her soft hand, something too soft to even be human, is caressing my cheek. She whispers in my ear and I get excited. No, I don’t get excited. And she keeps whispering, “Peter, Peter, Peter…”
            “Peter? Are you sure you're okay? We can reschedule for another time if need.”
            “No, I swear I’m fine. Nerves, that’s all.”
            I receive another nervous glance we both take a seat. I’m panicking now. These stupid thoughts are going to ruin this interview.
            “This should only take ten to twenty minutes just out of respect for your time.” She runs through some more logistics. I’m not paying attention. But I should be. I can’t stop thinking about her whisper. Stop! That whisper gets me excited more than anything else has. Not now!
            “So tell me about yourself. You’ve got your academics and past jobs on your resume, but I don’t have a lot of information about you.”
I’ll tell you everything about me. I’m starting to want to crinkle my brain into a ball and throw it in the trash.
“Do you have any hobbies, weekly activities, or anything else that takes up a large chunk of your time?”
That stream of thoughts has no time to progress. Thank god. I answer the question, telling her about my meticulous lifestyle and probably unhealthy work habits. I mention my recent collecting hobby with different types of succulent plants. I try to be as honest as possible. Honesty is, usually, the best policy.
“Great, those are all great, and interesting, things for me to know.”
The questions continue and I answer them, I think. My thoughts get progressively more explicit, to my disgust. They get more intrusive, making it harder and harder for me to focus my answers to her questions. I guess that’s where the term “intrusive thoughts” comes from.
After what felt like a long twelve minutes, her questions conclude and she offers me the chance to ask any questions. I run through my brief questions regarding starting salary, how often I have to come into the office, things like that.
“Great. Well, that concludes the interview. Thank you for your time.”
            “No, thank you. I really appreciate your patience with me.” I say with a lot of relief.
“Don’t worry about it. It didn’t affect the interview at all so you’re in the clear.
“Wonderful. I look forward to your decision.”
We both stand up, almost in sync. She reaches her hand out once again, and I reluctantly accept the handshake knowing that my mind is going to spiral.
We’re in a hotel room on the third floor of the Grand Wailea on the island of Maui. I haven’t been there since I was a child. My rough hands are making their way down her back. I feels almost like a crime to touch her perfect skin. Her hands are doing the same to me. Is this what heaven would feel like? Definitely wanting to crumple my brain into something like a wad of paper and set it ablaze. I want this job, not her. I’m looking into her eyes. Those eyes that make me want to tell her everything, share my deepest secrets. I barely know this woman. But then she’s pulled away from me, suddenly.

The handshake is over. She leans down to reorganize some papers for the next interview. And then she walks around the table and towards the door. That perfect walk, with those perfect legs. Why is that what I’m looking at?

I’m brought back to the Grand Wailea. She’s back with me, her legs intertwined with mine. “After you,” she whispers.
“Peter?”
I blink my eyes. “Sorry.” She’s holding the door for me and I go through. “Thank you.”
I walk through the room, passing the only person that’s still waiting for their interview. Was he bald before? Doesn’t matter. I leave through the double doors and make my way to the outdoors. I let out a sigh of relief now that I’m free of those thoughts, but in the back of my mind, I know that I’m not, truly, free.
 
— — — — —
 
            I stop for some Thai food on my way back to my apartment. I did not feel good about that interview. My thoughts were front and center in my mind and I couldn’t focus on her questions. I don’t even remember the answers I gave her. I set my leftovers on my crimson red granite countertops and got some shut-eye for a couple hours. Later in the day I go around to some menial chores to clean the place and then go out for a drink after finishing the leftovers. I don’t go out for drinks much. Only for celebratory matters or when I need to process my day. I walk into the bar, lime green walls surrounding me. The chairs and barstools had wood seats with a metal backing and legs and the tables were made in a similar style. I take a second to examine the room. It’s pretty empty for a Friday night. I stroll over to the nearest empty barstool and the barista makes his way over to me as well.
            “What can I get ya?” A hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
            “Something strong.”
            “Any preference?”
            “No.”
            He gets me a glass of Jack Daniels and a Coke. I take the can of soda and pour it into the whiskey. I stare at the drink as the tiny bubbles race up to the surface. I get a hold of the cylindrical glass and take a sip.
            “Haven’t seen you in here in a while.” It’s the barista. He’s lost his enthusiasm.
            “I don’t come often.”
            “Is today a special occasion?”
            “No.”
            “Just a drink then.”
            “Yeah.” I take another sip. “Need to process the day. Alcohol helps…” another sip, “sometimes.”
            “I get that.” He turns away and leaves me to go help another customer.
            I finish my drink while reflecting on my day, mostly just the interview though. It’s all anxious thoughts wondering whether my inattentiveness was apparent and whether it would cost me the position. My thoughts are worried, at first about whether I will get this job and then they move to worry about whether I will ever be able to get another job in my life. These thoughts I keep having force their way to the front of my mind and I can’t drown them. I take out my phone and make a reminder for myself to call my therapist in the morning. OCD is a pain in my a** and I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon.
            I give the barista a generous tip after paying my bill and head back home. I take off my shoes at the door and look and the clock on wall on my left: 9:00. I’m exhausted. I go through my nightly routine and I’m in bed thirty minutes later. I fall into my mattress, the soft memory foam catching me like a cloud. I let out a sigh and close my eyes.