He emptied his business card holder into his desk bin and took out a tiny bottle of Jameson.
Two years, give or take an extra one month three days and five hours. He unscrewed the bitsy red cap and looked at the letter he’d just written, still warm from the printer.
What was next? Images of freedom and/or begging in the subway collided in his mind.
“You’re moving on?” Boss asked.
“Congratulations, I’m happy for you!”
The butterflies landed and a thin hard shell seemed to evaporate off his back. Outside, the sky stretched wide. He should call Cheryl!