Priorities

I couldn't remember when I had last shaved. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognised myself. My eyes were dark, sunken rings. My skin was dry and aged. My stubble was flecked with gray. My work had cost me so much. So much more than I realised.

My family had become ghosts - swathing in and out of focus, they mouthed silent words at me. I stood at the kitchen counter, scoffing burnt toast, talking via video conference with the Board of Directors. They were all wearing spotless white Keffiyehs with black bands.

The next day I awoke before dawn. I lathered my face and shaved myself clean. I dressed in my best suit and matching blue tie. I kissed my wife, her body warm and kind, and then left the house as the sun was cresting the rooftops of the nearby houses.

I walked briskly, whistling, swinging my umbrella. My mobile rang away in my pocket, but I never once made the effort to answer it.

I took the express lift up to the top floor - the electronic lift numbers whizzed by in a blur. Every wall in my office was made of polished glass. I could see the harbour and the neon street lights far below. The first commuters were bustling down the wet oily pavements.

The glass gave way with the second swing of my leather and chrome chair and I let the momentum of it carry me out. I watched the myriad glass shards suspended about me and I watched how my chair did was buffeted in the air currents as I hurtled down.

I hoped that the news of my death wouldn't upset company productivity in the long term.