Dave was a secret agent.

Nobody knew. Because it was a secret.

He surveyed the scene, scanning windows and rooftops, before casually walking down the street to the corner shop. Inside he noticed the CCTV camera. Only one. He could take that out with one shot.

But not today.

It was his day off.

“Morning Mrs Jones. A newspaper and a loaf of bread, please,” said Dave.

“Here you are, Dave. Have a nice day.”

Dave left the shop and walked home, looking forward to his hot buttered toast and coffee and a lazy day at home.

Thomas Bailey lives in a second-story flat with popcorn ceilings and bare windowboxes. Two of the power outlets in his living room don’t work, but he doesn’t mind; he doesn’t like to bother maintenance.

He’s never had trouble finding his name on novelty keychains. He keeps a plastic ivy wreath on his front door year-round, because it’s nice to look at. Every night before bed, he watches cable on a sturdy box television and treats himself to a glass of filtered tap water. No ice.

Thomas fancies himself a writer. He knows he’s a good one, because he uses words like “precipice” and “effervescent” and “perpetual,” though he’s careful to dish these out sparingly in his works so they don’t seem overused. He’s tried several times to keep a journal, but always eventually quits. The entries look too similar.

At night, he lies beneath a set of plaid flannel sheets and watches his ceiling fan turn. He lets the steady tick of his analog clock lull him to sleep. In the back of his head, like a faint radio someone forgot to switch off, he thinks about that one Talking Heads song.

He lay in the grass,

Looking at the sky.

In the past six hours,

Only the sun,

And the fluffy white cloud,

Had moved.

He was having soooo much fun.

Soooo much.

Heroic, he scartched his head,

turned the cellphone alarm off.

he can’t be late. needs this job.

got dressed as best he could,

out of laundry pile which was not yet washed,

so just the least-dirty one.

grabbed an apple from the counter,

exited the door, forgetting the keys.

decided to go to the job,

then hope the roommate will be back by tehy time he returned.

made his way to the bus station.

fingered his bus pass in his jacket.

at least he didn’t forget that.

ate the apple after he found a seat.

all teh while the bus went on,

he encouraged himself.

“at least i’m not a street cleaner”, when he saw a street cleaner.

“at least i’m not a taxi driver”,

when he saw a taxi driver arguing with the guy that drove back ,

damaging his bumper.

“at least i’m not a working for the power company”,

as he saw the guy hanging with the hydraulic lift.

“at least i’m not a traffic cop”

“at least I’m not a hotdog stand guy”

“at leats I’m not a delivery guy”

“at least...”

it went on like this as the guy noted every person doing work,

outside the slowly-moving bus.

the apple was not satisfying. it was old and mealy.

the guy relaized he craved something more substantial .

he dreamt of combinging breakfast menus of different chains together,

to form the super meal.

One day, when he’s rich and famous, or just about to die,

he would do this super meal.

A bucket list item.

he thought of a few more.

he never made it to work, as the bus fell off the bridge.

the key to the apartment was in his left jeans pocket after all.

he just never took it out the night before.