He just couldn't get over the stairs in the place, spiraling up into the ceiling, the shiny wood steps guarded by a graceful banister of brushed steel. Who can afford an apartment like this at our age? Six years of graduate school had taken a toll on his finances and his morale, and he sighed to himself as he wondered why he had started the program in the first place. Art History? So I could get a job? The webs of delusion that he could spin to justify a decision knew no limit in their density and reach.
Of course now that he was almost finished, there was no point in quitting, or analyzing, or standing here in this goddamn corner of this swanky apartment when he could be networking, or at least enjoying himself. His wife was chatting animatedly to a stranger across the room, and his drink was empty. He could get a refill and then casually join her conversation...yes, that was a plan. Uprooting himself from his misery, he headed to the kitchen for another Tanqueray and tonic.
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