It’s raining outside the Terrace Building, 41st and Broadway. I’m looking over the city skyline from my 78th floor office. It’s times like these when the fall from here to the pavement wouldn’t seem that bad. My wife’s screwing some Board Executive and my kid’s stealing money for coke. People like myself never consider suicide. I have too much to lose. Sure, money doesn’t buy happiness, but the countless cars and endless vacations are well worth living for. It’s attention we crave.

They have in-house psychiatrists in this building for people like myself. But he solves nothing. So I open the window and climb out onto the ledge. Someone will notice me. Within seconds, Kathy, my secretary comes rushing in the room. She’s cute.

“Jesus Christ, Bill. Get back in here,” she pleads.

“No,” I tell her. She has to be more convincing than that.

“Please, Bill. God, please. It’s not worth it.”

“Have dinner with me then.”

“What?”

“Dinner. Go out with me.”

“Yes. Fine. Just get back in here. Please.”

All I want is for someone to care. To listen to me. And not get paid to do it.

While climbing back in the window of my office, I’m wondering where I will take her for dinner. And if she’ll feel bad for me and sleep with me. But the rain causes my foot to slip from the ledge and in a flash I’m falling 78 stories faster than the speed of sound.

Floor 54. I wonder if this is going to hurt.

Floor 41. I wonder if my wife will miss me.

Floor 36. I remember she is still the proprietor of my will.

Floor 25. I become reasonably pissed about that.

Floor 11. I can’t believe I’m wasting my time thinking about this. Is there a God?

Ground zero. I’ve wasted my life.

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