He decided, at the age of thirty-three, that he had failed. Everyday felt identical. He’d cycle to work, pass that same lady who asked for a dollar, then sit through another twelve hour shift. Blank walls, white screens, bleached shirts, tucked clean, “clocking off in fifteen.” The evening would begin with an expensive bottle of wine, and end with cheap company. Sometimes they’d come over then leave before the moon ended its shift. If he liked them, he’d see them again; see if he could get off again. The few friends he’d collected over the years held gatherings on special occasions. On Saturdays he called his mother. “Yes I’m fine, work is good, can’t complain, oh that’s nice, what’s his name?” One day he received a phone call from a friend’s partner. Suicide. At the age of thirty-three, he’d failed to read between the lines, and his mother had failed to recognize the signs.