upwardly mobile
Matthew inhales an amount of crisp autumn air -- all damp, rotting leaves that plaster themselves across the surface area of his brain. When he shakes them off, he wakes himself for the first time in months. He is dazed, gasping. He moons at the walls of his cubicle, which suddenly seem less felty and are taller and father apart from one another. There is a clock, it reads nine-fifteen. His desk is now wooden and movable. There is a chair in front of his desk for entertaining visitors. Counterpoint is sitting there.
"Is this an office? Do I have an office?" says Matthew.
"You're back!" Counterpoint says. "It's been a while. Here, I have some papers for you to sign."
Matthew looks at the papers, struggles to make sense of their arrangements of words. "Things have changed," he says.
"Um, yes. You have this office, you're a homeowner, you have a cat... a mortgage, a gym membership."
The papers are on the floor. Matthew has his head in his hands. He mutters into his palms. He takes his jacket of the hook on his door -- his door -- which he pulls shut as he leaves.
Counterpoint starts and Matt says, "Early lunch" just before the door clicks closed.
