At work, the day is solid with meetings from the morning on. Important meetings on sales campaigns for a new product line. Several employees read reports. Blackboards fill with figures, bar graphs proliferate on computer screens. Heated discussions. I participate, although my contribution to the meetings is not that critical because I’m not directly involved with the project. So between meetings I keep puzzling things over. I voice an opinion only once. Isn’t much of an opinion, either—something perfectly obvious to any observer—but I couldn’t very well go without saying anything, after all. I may not be terribly ambitious when it comes to work, but so long as I’m receiving a salary I have to demonstrate responsibility. I summarize the various opinions up to that point and even make a joke to lighten the atmosphere. Half covering for my daydreaming about the TV People. Several people laugh. After that one utterance, however, I only pretend to review the materials; I’m thinking about the TV People. If they talk up a name for the new microwave oven, I certainly am not aware of it. My mind is all TV People. What the hell was the meaning of that TV set? And why haul the TV all the way to my apartment in the first place? Why hasn’t the wife remarked on its appearance? Why have the TV People made inroads into my company?

The meetings are endless. At noon, there’s a short break for lunch. Too short to go out and eat. Instead, everyone gets sandwiches and coffee. The conference room is a haze of cigarette smoke, so I eat at my own desk. While I’m eating, the section chief comes around. To be perfectly frank, I don’t like the guy. For no reason I can put my finger on: There’s nothing you can fault him on, no single target for attack. He has an air of breeding. Moreover, he’s not stupid. He has good taste in neckties, he doesn’t wave his own flag or lord it over his inferiors. He even looks out for me, invites me out for the occasional meal. But there’s just something about the guy that doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s his habit of coming into body contact with people he’s talking to. Men or women, at some point in the course of the conversation he’ll reach out a hand and touch. Not in any suggestive way, mind you. No, his manner is brisk, his bearing perfectly casual. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people don’t even notice, it’s so natural. Still—I don’t know why—it does bother me. So whenever I see him, almost instinctively I brace myself. Call it petty, it gets to me.