The screen had locked up. He’d coded yet another infinite loop.

“Bastard,” he said, thumbing the power switch to the computer.

His swarthy co-worker from the cubicle across rolled over on his chair and grinned. You could see the remains of his lunch on his mustache. “You’ll never get it fixed.” He laughed, a sound as ugly as his mustache looked and rolled back into his cubicle.

“Bastard,” he said again. “Bastard, bastard, BASTARD!”

Now everyone was looking at him and his demolished keyboard. That was definitely coming out of his paycheck. Fuck this, he’d been working too much overtime anyways. He unplugged his surge protector and grinned when he heard his shitty co-worker make a tsking noise—improper shutdown procedures were frowned upon by management.

He’d unconsciously framed his anxieties before he’d even stepped out of the door. It was late and his husband would be wondering where he was.