I try to work, I really do.
The file for the Chen matter is a slab of legal jargon that would, on any other day, glide beneath my red pen like water. Today, every sentence is a personal affront. The words seem to sharpen as I read, the typeface blacker than black, the lines of the contract etching into my retinas with the permanence of scars. I can see the imperfections in the paper, the tiny flaws in the fiber, the minuscule bit of something—printer dust, skin cell, whatever—embedded in the margin.
Even the screen is too bright. The LED flickers at a frequency meant to be invisible, but to me it’s as if I’m seeing between the frames of a bad movie, every transition a little slice of violence against my eyes.
I smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen four doors down. I smell the anxiet
