Quarter to eight, fifteen minutes to go. I put my phone back in my pocket and step off the bus. My bus stops right outside my work, but I always get off at the stop before, just near the town. A few weeks ago, Kelly noticed this because she gets on the same bus most days. She asked me about it across the office, and everybody present went silent in anticipation of my response. They listened with such keen intent as they waited for me to explain why I get off at a certain bus stop in the morning; the monotony was painful. I told them that it depended on how I was feeling that particular day; they all looked slightly puzzled and almost dissatisfied with my answer.

I’m en route to work. Every time I hear the words ‘en route’, I can’t help but think of those that spell it ‘on route’.

What to listen to? Maybe something nostalgic to remind me of being younger. Much simpler times, really.

Better press the button on the traffic light and wait for the green man to grant me permission to cross. Actually, it doesn’t look like anything’s turning off onto this road, so I’ll live life on the edge and hurry across without waiting.

Almost there now. As I walk through the car park, I can’t help but think about how it looks now and how different it’ll look in about an hour.

Music off, earphones out and put away in my jacket pocket, the same pocket I keep my bus pass in. £103 for twenty-eight days? Crazy money. Through the main door and up the stairs before typing ’3 2 1 0’ into the office door. At least it’s easy to remember.

We had a party in here a few months ago. They were telling me that my resolution should be to not take everything too seriously, and to loosen up.

Variations of ‘good morning’ greet me from the handful of people that start at this time.

‘Morning, you alright?’ I say back, ambiguous in intended direction. I don’t really have any conversational intention, I’m just playing my part a daily small talk ritual.

‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks,’ says Graham.

‘Good,’ I say, as I walk over to my desk.

‘You?’ says Graham. His tone conveys indifference.

‘Not too bad, thank you.’ The first exchanges of the day are mostly the same.

‘Good,’ he says. Is everything actually always good? Is ‘good’ even a good word? The limited vocabulary is apparent.

I usually take my jacket off before I do anything else, but I’ll keep it on for a while. I open my laptop and turn it on; depending on the luck of the draw, it could take fifty seconds or fifty minutes for it to load the login screen. I look around and see Dianne, Stacey, and Stella tapping away on their keyboards. Maybe they’re working or maybe they’ve each developed a method of looking like they’re working whilst spending eight hours a day bashing random keys. Is there a difference?

I’ll put my lunch in the fridge and make a cup of tea whilst I’m waiting. As I walk to the kitchen, I pass Anne stood at the copying machine, preparing for the day ahead.

‘Morning! How are we today?’ she says, as though she sprinkled cocaine on her cereal.

‘Good thanks, yourself?’ It doesn’t matter who plays what role, the sequence of words will always be similar enough. I’m 99% sure it isn’t limited to this building, either.

‘Not too bad,’ she says, reminding me that there probably isn’t too much of that manufactured enthusiasm that any one human can deal with. ‘Cold?’

Confused, I remember that I’d decided to keep my jacket on. ‘Oh. Yeah, something like that,’ I say, as I hurry to the kitchen.

Walking down the corridor, I can see the human resources office at the end. Each one of them is glued to their monitor as they mindlessly hit their keyboards. What’s that theory about a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters and the complete works of Shakespeare?

There’s not too much room in the fridge, but I find enough space at the bottom. There’s not too much room in this kitchen at all, it’d probably be a struggle to fit anything more than three adults in here. There’s a contraption attached to the wall that dispenses hot water. Probably not the safest thing in the world, but at least I don’t have to wait for the kettle to boil.

Back to my desk. Anne’s gone, but the copier is still whirring away. I sit on my chair and see that my laptop is finally loading.

I can hear distinguished footsteps approaching as they echo down the corridor.

As she enters the office, I stand up, turn, and approach her with intent.

‘Alright?’ says Jane, as I stand in front of her. I reach for my pocket, the one that doesn’t hold my earphones and bus pass. I pull out a small gun and hold it up to her face. It’s finally enough to halt tapping heard from all corners of the room. Everyone freezes.

‘What date is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s…it’s…Thursday…I mean, Wednesday,’ she says, her face whiter than Winter’s first snowfall.

‘Date. Not day.’ I won’t take my eyes off her, but I don’t need to. I can comfortably see every person in here, in my peripherals.

‘It’s March the…no, it’s April the 1^st,’ she says, almost unable to compose herself.

I give a sly grin as my finger pulls the trigger. A small jet of water hits her between the eyes.