The signs are everywhere. That coworker who presses the wrong button in the elevator in the morning, even though he’s worked right next to you for four years on the 9th floor. He looks at you blearily, half conscious, and you suddenly know. He did something last night. The other coworker, the one with the grim expression, who surrounds herself with no less than three different beverages in the morning: Vitamin Water, coconut water, water-water, and possibly an iced or regular coffee. You don’t know what she did last night, either, but she’ll probably tell you by end of day because that one is a talker. Chances are, it will include something she feels bad about, because she’s also an especially guilty type who one time stole a stapler from the conference room and went on about it for days until she finally put it back. Anyway, she did something last night. Your mom, your sister, your brother; your divorce lawyer, your babysitter, your green grocer, the fresh-faced woman in your building with the high cheekbones and wide-set eyes who’s probably a model, the person you sit next to on the subway who may or may not smell of cigarettes and a faint veneer of Jameson. Those shoes left on your kitchen table. Who do they belong to, even? There’s a faint memory, maybe, but it takes into the afternoon to realize they belong to you. These people: They all did something last night.
Also, I might change names and careers just so I can be referred to as “roaming and completely unaffiliated sociologist Gulliver Tompkins-Mercer.”