It had been a long day at work - I honestly struggled to keep a grip on the developing situation, but for every step forward, I took another three back. The phone kept bringing further complications; Jack had new figures for the gained losses over three weeks of last June and the sand contractor wanted to increase the cost of waiting for fresh water. When the boys in Outland tried to shift the collision vectors, frustration compelled me to unplug the phone. The report had to reach Finnegan's desk by five and so I indulged in the executive fantasy that time had stopped briefly, determined to simply write my proposal based on the current information.
Of course, looking at a static world didn't help as much as I had imagined. I still couldn't find a sensible way to apply the rules I thought should govern the case. At one time, I had hoped to completely escape the demands of the office over the coming weekend. By Tuesday, I knew that was a pipe-dream, but I held onto my hopes, for while they were a rather airy fantasy, I had grown desperate, clinging to whatever dreams of respite I might grab hold of. I gave up on wanting Saturday by pieces - by Thursday it was obvious that I would spend the bulk of that day cleaning up some sloppy paperwork. There was no doubt that I was disappointed, but I knew most professionals can expect to work at least part of Saturday, and I couldn't hope to do better than most with our contract deadlines approaching.
The defeat of Saturday, because reasonably expected, only stiffened my resolve. I would not work Sunday. As I dashed out the final paragraph of Finn's report at three minutes after five, I smiled. Sunday might escape. I fought the crawling cross-town traffic home on that hot summer evening, my patience worn achingly thin.
Arriving ninety-seven minutes later at our brick and green suburban dwelling, I struggled out of my wretched commuter's prison, my back and neck stiff with the tense immobility of long, slow driving. The sun shone brief kisses of freedom as I stretched my arms and sauntered toward the house. With a sigh of real relief, I found Diana sitting on our comfortable sofa, looking exceptionally pretty in a white sundress. Tan shoulders drew my weary attention as they emerged seductively naked, offered with a promising turn. My thoughts lightened as I drank in the view of her tempting cleavage and the twist of her lean legs. Her blue eyes shone up toward my appreciative gaze, and as I prepared to bask in her inviting smile, I discovered there was no way to avoid the pensive thoughts which suddenly struggled across my dear wife's face. As I opened Diana's book of soul, I read volumes of uneasy anguish and regret. Something had happened; something unfortunate, at least.
I placed my briefcase beside the oak coffee table and my wife quickly enveloped me with a hug. As I held her firm body in my arms, intoxicated by the scent of her feminine charm, I kissed her neck lightly. At once, she pressed her moist lips to mine with an outburst of passion. I kissed her deeply, lovingly, hoping my lips could somehow erase the trouble that had possessed her. I kissed her and instinctively my hands surrounded the round swell of her ass. I realized that a stream of warm tears moistened my cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Mark" Diana said softly, "I screwed up."
"It's all right," I replied on faith. "What happened?"
"I was working on the project for the AIH," she said, stepping back and wiping her tears away, "and I needed a disk. I assumed the program would just save the file, but it reformatted and wrote over..."
"No," I said softly, suddenly realizing what she meant. At least twenty hours of work vanished into the aether. Frustration struck me like a torpedo to the hull. "How could you?"
"I'm sorry," Diana said, and she began to cry in earnest. "You don't have another copy of the files?"
"No. They'll have to be recreated from scratch." Diana collapsed on the sofa in a torrent of tears.
Anger raged through me, but I couldn't maintain my fury for more than a few moments in the face of such pitiful remorse. Years have taught me that lamenting the passing of what has passed cannot aid the struggle. Perhaps my stoicism is a little cold, and maybe I would live better to give vent to my wraths, but I am only who I am. I forgave Diana and with a pang of despair I wrote off this weekend and the next.
The tragic destruction of my unarchived labor compiled with the strain of the day left me completely drained. We ate dinner in near silence, as Diana looked on for some sign that all would be forgotten, her sad eyes only increasing my despair. I just wanted to go to bed.
"I have something special for you for dessert," she said.
"I'm not in the mood for treats," I replied more coldly than I wanted to be.
"I think this will help. Go sit in the family room, and I'll bring it to you."
I poured myself a glass of brandy and turned on some Tchaikovsky, ready to drown myself in self-indulgent emotional turmoil. Diana entered and went to the stereo.
