After twenty-odd failed pitches, however, the sting aches less and less. My nerves and anxiety aren’t quite as debilitating. They’re still there. I can’t imagine them ever going completely away, not with three people staring at me with their beady little judging eyes. I guess immersion therapy works somewhat though, because I keep screwing up, over and over and over, and gradually, I stop caring as much about their reactions.

Getting fired doesn’t hurt nearly as much the fiftieth time.

And that’s where my silver lining ends.

The Mondays continue and no matter what I say, over the course of weeks and weeks of Mondays, the results are always the same. I can affect some things, like how I get to work, who I talk to each day. I may be able to avoid getting poop on my hand and sleeping with Mark, but that’s about it. I still get fired. Over and over and over.

The more days pass, the more I realize how vile he is. Why did I ever hook up with that jerk? Ugh. It makes me want to spew just looking at him now.

He is definitely not what this love thing is all about and if he is, the universe is messed up.

I want to let him know exactly what I think about how much of a repulsive, sickening, revolting turd he is. I have a whole speech planned out in my head, crafted over the course of so many Mondays, using a lot of adjectives, but despite the anger bubbling in my veins every time he’s in my general vicinity, I can’t do it. I try a couple of times. I open my mouth to tell him off and the words stick in my throat and my heart starts beating too fast, and I just can’t. So I run away.

I try to stay positive, but frustration gets to me after getting fired for the zillionth time.

One Monday, after getting fired again and avoiding Mark by mumbling something about being on my period, I leave out the front for the first time in a long time, shoving open the door and exiting without looking back, my mind trying to drag me into the mire of depression.

What’s the point of reliving the same day if I can’t actually change the major outcomes, the things that made it so shitty to begin with? It’s been almost three months of this now.

Footsteps pound the pavement behind me.

“Hey, Jane. You okay?”

“Alex. Hey. Yeah. I’m all right.” I’m not but what can I do about it that I haven’t already done?

“How did the pitch go?”

I shake my head. “Not great.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”