I hate her. I stare at her, unnoticed, while she arranges a pile of papers. My anger rises frothy and hot and I serve it indiscriminately. I imagine it being poured, boiling, down her throat and all the throats of whom I hate, and although I don't think it would make an effective exorcism like the medieval priests believed, it would at least shut her the hell up; it would shut everyone up and leave me some peace. She looks up; I smile, but not wanting to lose my anger, I nurse it along with my third morning screwdriver on what should be a workday, with tenderness, care and self-loathing. I hate myself.
Munday is not a writer.