The pointed toe caps of his brogues send out little clippy announcements of each of his steps. With the inclusion of the tapping raindrops around, the world has a distinctly staccato feel to it. Dom has his umbrella, standard business issue black, protecting his suit from the rain. It's rather like he's the boy in the bubble really, only the bubble only protects his top half and there are already splashes to his socks that will make the tube ride home more miserable. He sighs at it, attempting to convey to the rain that he will simply not stand for its presence today. Just like the twenty or so days preceding this one, the rain pays no heed.

As expected, the cold clammy dampness trickles into his socks. It's also there in his left wrist cuff, because he'd clumsily closed his umbrella before finding a seat on the train. As it rolls along, he watches his fellow passengers, idly though, without much enthusiasm for the task. They look as bored and unhappy as himself. The odor of fish wafts through the compartment and it mixes unpleasantly with the moldy subterranean smell.

He tries not to reflect on the feelings about the meeting with his boss; better to wait until he's inside his own flat where he's free to cry, not that he will, or to break something, not that he will. He definitely does not want to think, while surrounded by apathetic strangers, about the judgment in his boss's voice nor the implications of hearing that particular phrase uttered by someone with whom he isn't sleeping. Nope, instead he wills himself to think of the things that need done around the flat. It's the 15th of the month, so it's loo cleaning day. He'll also need to take down the recycling, the paper and plastic canisters if not the glass. Dom rarely drinks at home and the little glass container is usually empty. He's tempted to get a jump on his weekend chores, but then that would just screw up the schedule. Perhaps there are some items on his annual list that could be completed, but he has that in writing and not on his phone, so he isn't quite sure off the top of his head what those are.

The meeting thoughts still needle in. Luckily, the trip home isn't long, and then he has his chores to keep him distracted. He turns up music, dons his rubber gloves, and sets to work getting rid of as much bacteria as he can (99.9% per the bottle) while humming along. Millicent wraps around his ankles as he works, either trying to trip him so that she can eat him, or just curious, as though he never cleans and she has no concept of what this new activity means. He won't be able to pet her until his work is done, something that always miffs her and the resentment builds as things become shinier. The toilet itself gets weekly attention, and the shower, scrubbing the tiles and the glass doors, is every two weeks. It never accumulates mold, only a small smattering of Millicent's fur (if she goes in there, it's while he's asleep because he's never witnessed her investigating his various soaps) and the odd red hair (which he believes but desperately hopes he's imagining seeing more often now that he's in his mid-30s).

He removes all the mirror smudges to Imagine Dragons, puts away the clean dishes to Queen, sorts in chronological order a pile of magazines that Millicent peskily knocked off a shelf to Sir Sly, and returns to Poets of the Fall after taking out the recycling. He partially ruins his work with a quick shower, but the hot water feels like it burns off bacteria that the gloves couldn't prevent touching his skin. Millicent watches from the downturned lid of the toilet, judging the sanity of a creature that would willingly submit itself to a bath. He chitters to her, unable to touch her fur with the water still clinging to him, and she arches up her spine eager to be petted, disgruntled and impatient while he dresses in flannel pants and a white crew neck t-shirt. He's warm enough from the shower that he doesn't immediately put over his house robe.

Dom's couch, nostrils filled with tea steam, lap full of entitled purring cat. That's where he is when the conversation with Reilly resurfaces. "You're a control freak." The first time that his ex-boyfriend Abbas had called him that, Dom had felt that it was hyperbolic, just exaggerated emotions during a heated argument. With the accusation's second appearance, however, it was no longer ignorable as a flip insult; it became a possible character flaw, potentially requiring deep personal insight, long sessions with a therapist, or an all-out fingers-in-his-ears denial that anything could be wrong with him. Hearing it from his boss eleven long months after Abbas had moved out, Tesco boxes littering every room of the apartment for nearly three weeks before that, Dom had felt the deep frown set into his lips and forehead and the deep dread of how Reilly's choice of words were going to encircle his thoughts set into his belly.

"It's just a joke, Dom!" Reilly had said, obviously observing the look of dismay on his face. Then, "Mostly."

The office could be any in London, any in the world for that matter. Computers and cubicles, pens and paper shredders. Even though Reilly is his direct superior, he doesn't have a real office with walls, not even a spot by one of the rare and coveted windows. As a matter of fact, Dom's boss is a rung nearly as low as himself on the corporate ladder of First Order Commercial Realty.

"I mean, it's okay to have ambition. But, look, you just got here seven months ago. Give it time. You still have a lot to learn. Give it a couple of years, then we can see about putting you in charge of your own team. Hell, maybe you'll even take over my position by then.

The horror that Dom felt in that moment was sublime. It was a two-fold horror. A little voice in his head saying, "Abbas was right - you are a control freak" and then the louder jovial voice of Reilly announcing that in years he might someday win the lottery of slightly below middle management.

He'd never understood how anyone could feel suicidal until that moment. That isn't even hyperbole. He could literally see his entire life before him, a long subway train headed down one long track, no deviations, and, more importantly, not even being his own conductor even though the train had "my life" splattered across the side in yellow spray paint. He'd never felt the meaningless of life so acutely until then. It might not even be life in general, but his in particular, because others around him seemed to have so much more autonomy in what they chose to do.

Reilly had been aware of the impact of his words, though he might not have understood why they'd hit so hard or how deeply the wound went. He'd made jokes, tried to lessen the blow, but soon enough, he'd left Dom to his own thoughts, to his probably ashen dejected face. All Dom had wanted when submitting his formal proposal was a small team, maybe three or four people underneath him. That's all, he knew, that he would need to show them how efficiently the company could be run with his ideas, with his abilities, leading the way. He certainly hadn't anticipated being told that he needed to devote years to his current position to even consider doing so. Even less had he expected to be taunted for his ambition.

There's an oft quoted belief that animals can sense their owners' moods. Millicent, ungraciously licking her anus on his lap could therefore be seen as a clear demonstration of where his life sits right now. Or, she could just be oblivious and enjoying the taste of whatever her own ass tastes like. Either way, he bumps her off. It's time to head to the pub. Alcohol certainly won't make him feel better, but perhaps the camaraderie of other working stiffs will give his mind something to focus on outside of his own self-pity.

"Your owner is a control freak," Dom announces to Millicent upon arriving home. She creates meow circles around his feet, returning his announcement with her own - that she can see the bottom of her food dish and therefore the surrounding circle of food is no longer valid. "And, he's battered."

He hangs his sodden coat on the three pronged rack next to his door. He'd only walked two blocks yet it looks as though he's been for a swim while wearing the thing. He flutters his lips at it, not quite a raspberry. "Well, you hang there then." He smiles down at the cat. "Both of us need to dry out a bit, eh?"

He talks to himself as he rifles through the cupboards for a wet can of food. "Eat well tonight for we may die tomorrow!" he says, plucking the tin of salmon flavored glop from behind a sack of jasmine rice.

He pulls the ring top then stares in surprise at his left hand, the hand that was holding the can far above the rim, the hand that now is positively squirting blood. "Well shit," he says before the world begins to spin. He lands with one knee on the laminate floor. Millicent, still desperate for food, stands with her paws atop his quads, greedy nose jabbing at the can he's still holding. "Shit." he says again, vision receding and ears ringing. "I'm going to faint," he says, lying down full length on his kitchen floor.

He doesn't faint. Lying down prevents full-on loss of consciousness, but it takes several minutes of bleeding out onto the floor before his sight and hearing fully return. The ringing slowly transitions into the sound of cat jaw-smacking and the overhead light looks less like one of those electricity balls with streaks of light and dark zagging out from its center. He looks at his blood-drenched hand. It makes him feel woozy but oddly curious.

Dom begins to chuckle. It's a delirious ale-induced laughter at the absurdity of life. He considers, briefly, that if he had another can of cat food handy, he might be able to aim for his right wrist next time. The thought never really sinks all the way in, because even batting around the idea of suicide seems dangerous, like its inviting depression to dig its way further down inside him, to the core of who he is.

When he sits up, it's tentative, feeling it out. His head is pounding, but all of his senses remain intact. He grips tightly onto the counter as he stands, rather like learning how to ice skate when he'd been a child. He fares better on the tile than he had at the rink and he has none of his peers to judge him here, only Millicent who, after finishing off her meal has shuffled off somewhere else, probably to return to arsehole cleaning.

It would probably be smart to stave off the bleeding before cleaning it, but he's right there in the kitchen and antibacterial soap always seems like a good idea. When he finishes getting imagined cat food particles out of the gash, he wraps the whole hand up mummy-style with paper towels.

The perfect end to a perfect day, he thinks bitterly, drunkenly, as he walks into his bedroom only to find that Millicent has coughed up a hairball on the duvet. He hurls the dirty cover onto the floor with his uninjured hand. His dramatic dive onto the bed has a touch of petulant adolescent to it, but at the moment, he's far from caring. He just wants to sleep off this day. Honestly, he just wants to sleep off his life. Would he really be missing anything if he just pulled a Rip Van Winkle, slept through the rest of the tube track on which his life train is going? It's not like there will be any points of interest, no other passengers, no scenic views out the window. He curls underneath the thin sheet, fully clothed (minus his shoes), and fully ready to wink out of existence for a while.