It was a Sunday. Smith looked out his open window. The sun was bright in the sky, fluffy white wisps of clouds covering a miniscule part of the azure sky. A breeze was blowing. The leafy trees lining the roads outside Smiths office were bending in their dance. The roads were quiet, a car passed every now and then. Smith could see the purple mountains far of in the distance, but far more immediate, were the neighboring skyscrapers. Towers of steel and glass, mirroring each other in an endless reflection. A few people were scurrying around holding sheets of paper or talking on their cell phones. Smith always felt a tinge of pride when he saw them. The pride that one has when he knows his work is more important. He turned back to his computer screen.

The face of the monitor was covered in post-it notes, leaving just the screen itself exposed. Scribbled on most of them were calculations, but a few of them had more immediate remainders, such as to buy a new bottle of whiskey. Smith peeled that note off and tucked it in his shirt pocket. He would take care of it on his way home. He turned back to the screen. The calculations of the Spread Function filled it. It was missing just one little constant. He hit enter, and the calculation started running in the supercomputers in the basement. The screen went black. A thin bar of green appeared on the left edge. A progress bar. Smith had seen a lot of those in his six years working on the Spread Function, but if everything went as planned, this would be the last one. He took off his specs and rubbed his eyes. He was thirsty. He looked around the Office. It was almost deserted. A few of his colleagues were at their desks typing away. A few were on the phone. Smith got up and made his way to the water cooler.

He had just poured himself a glass of water when he felt a hand on his back and a voice in his ear saying,

“So how’s the calculation going?”

Smith didn’t need to turn around to recognize the silky voice of Amanda. He turned to her. Her face was very close. Smith could see deep into her brown eyes. He stepped back before he got caught staring. He ran a hand through his hair and said.

“It’s almost done. The last calculation’s going on. I think it might be done today. It’s just a constant generation. The transition vector probabilities are-“

He stopped talking as he saw Amanda’s eyes wandering. She was the head of public relations, and not that into transition vector probabilities. He wondered why she was in on a Sunday. They stood in silence for a while. Smith sipped his water and asked,

“So what’re you doing in on a Sunday?”

Amanda turned towards him and smiled.

“I have some work to do as well. You scientist people seem to think you’re the only ones that matter. We do work as well you know.”

“Of course. That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry-“ Smith fumbled, but stopped when she started laughing.

“I’m just kidding! Relax, Smith” She put a hand on his arm. Smith was very aware of the red nail polish she was wearing. He looked down into his cup. It was half empty. Not half full. His mouth was dryer than before. He found talking to women in general difficult. With Amanda it was even worse. He looked at his shoes. Suddenly he remembered something he had read a long time ago.

“Your shoes are very nice. Are they new?” A lame line, but all he could think of.

Amanda laughed, looked down at her shoes,

“Thanks, but no they’re not new. I’ve had them for a while now.” Her hand was still on Smith’s arm.

Smith looked around. Everyone was still busy, typing or on the phone. Amanda saw him look away. She released his hand, pursing her lips as she said,

“I hope I’m not boring you. I’d better let you get back to work. Everyone is waiting for you after all,”

She turned away. Smith cursed under his breath. Threw away the cup of water and said,

“No, of course not. I wasn’t- I mean-“ He didn’t know what to say.

Amanda just shrugged her shoulders and went back to her cabin. Smith stood there, cursing himself for a bit longer before he walked slowly back to his desk.

He sat down. The progress bar had crossed halfway. Smith yawned and stretched his hands over his head. His shirt came un-tucked. He patted it down and looked at his monitor again. His eyes skimmed over the notes he had stuck on it. One of them caught his attention

‘First birthday- 8th November.’

He looked at his watch. It was the 9th. Smith had missed his son’s first birthday. He had been passed out drunk on his couch at home. Smith swore again. The Spread Function had cost him everything. His wife had left him, his son was growing up without him. His friends had stopped coming over years ago. All he had in his life was the Spread Function and his bottle of Jack Daniels. Smith and Jack were lifelong buddies. The guy at the shop didn’t even ask Smith what he wanted anymore. He would wordlessly fetch two bottles of the whiskey and place them in front of him. Smith knew somewhere, somehow that was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He ran a hand over his face. His stubble was prickly. He would have to shave.

A small pop-up appeared on the screen. One of those yellow triangles with an ‘!’in the middle that meant something was wrong. Paranoia gripped Smith. What if his calculations were off, what if the computer had hit a snag. He read it.

‘Your antivirus is out of date. Update now.’

Smith let out an explosive breath. He clicked ‘later’ and the message went away. He still vividly remembered the day a few months ago when his project leader Nayib had called him to his office.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Smith.” Nayib was behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. His pale belly was showing through as the buttons tried hard to hold his shirt together. His belt was lost under the folds of fat.

Smith looked at him, and felt the nausea he always did. Brown beady eyes almost lost beneath shaggy eyebrows were staring at him. The pockmarked face and the small stubby nose in the middle completed the caricature that was Nayib. His double chin quivered as he spoke.

“You should have been done with the Calculations a long time ago. It’s been six years now. The machines been ready for a long time now. It’s been gathering dust while we’ve been waiting on your calibrations.” He bent down, opened a drawer on his desk and fetched a sandwich. He tore off the packaging with his teeth and took a greedy bite. A piece of chicken fell on his shirt. He picked it up, looked at it and put it into his mouth. A small oily patch had formed on his shirt front. He took a few more bites and with his mouth full, he said

“So what do you have to say for yourself?” Globs of food sprayed across the table. But thankfully the table was wide enough that Smith remained dry.

“But Sir, I’m working as fast as I can. It has to be precise. The Spread Function controls everything. If it’s off by even the slightest, the results will be catastrophic.”

Nayib took another bite before saying,

“I don’t care about that. You’re holding the project back. Get the function by tomorrow or I’m kicking your lazy ass off the project. Now get the hell out of my office.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and motioned Smith to leave. A backhanded flick.

Smith went straight to his desk, rage building with every step. He picked up his book of calculations. Two hundred pages of dense algebra, matrices and vectors. He stormed back into Nayib’s office, slamming the door behind him as he did.

“What the- GET OUT” Nayib had risen from his chair, his face turning purple with anger. Smith threw the book at him. It hit his belly before landing open on the table in front of him.

“If you can make any sense of any of that, then you won’t have to kick me off. I’ll leave on my own!” Smith managed to say through gritted teeth. He was breathing heavily. He wanted nothing more than to wring that fat neck.

Nayib picked up the book, spluttering in rage. His expression turned to one of bewilderment as he leafed through a few pages. He threw the book back down. Mopped his brow with the wrapper of the sandwich he had just finished eating.

“Yes. Well. Yes. Carry on Smith. We can’t wait forever.” He motioned for Smith to leave again. The same backhanded flick, but slower, more respectful this time.

Smith picked his book up and turned to leave. As he opened the door, Amanda passed him. She flashed him a smile. That had cooled him down.

Smith’s reverie was broken by a ‘Ting’ as the calculation finished. Smith slid his chair closer and hit enter. The final constant. Smith could feel a huge weight lift off his shoulders. But mingled with that was a sense of loss, as if he had lost a close friend. A moment later, he remembered his other close friend, and felt better. Jack was good at making Smith feel happy.

Smith picked up the phone on the table. He dialed Nayib’s number. He picked up on the third ring. No greeting. No hello. Just the sound of chewing.

“Sir. It’s Smith. I’m done.”

A few more seconds of chewing before,

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“This is important. If you’ve messed up I’ll have your head, and I’m not being pretty. I will chop off your head at the neck, boil it and eat it with ketchup. God help me I will if you’re wrong.”

Smith swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat.

“I’m sure.”

“So can we start testing tomorrow?”

“I think so.”

Nayib hung up. No congratulations, not even a ‘well done’. Smith shrugged his shoulders and turned his computer off.

He stood up and looked around. He spotted Amanda sitting at a desk in the far corner texting on her phone.

“Guys!” Smith said loudly.

The conversations broke off as everyone turned to him. Amanda’s thumbs flicked a few more times before she too looked up.

“I’m done. The Spread Function is ready.”

There was silence. Amanda started clapping. She was on her feet. The others slowly joined in. Smith looked at Amanda, a small grin forming on his face. She was beaming. She stopped clapping and fished her phone out of her pocket. She looked at the screen for a second before looking back up at Smith and mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ as she picked up.

The applause died out as everyone went back to their own work. Smith had no idea what that was. All he cared about was the Spread Function. He looked around, searching for Amanda. Coffee with her would just make the day even better. She was nowhere to be found. Smith guessed she had ducked outside to get better coverage on her phone.

He picked his keys off the table and made his way to the exit. A few people patted him on the back as he passed them. He gave them all the same tight grin. He got into the lift. The elevator music started playing. Smith thought about tomorrow. The Project was finally complete. The first time he had met Nayib, he had laughed in his face when he heard his proposal. Impossible was an understatement to what they were trying to accomplish. But here he was, six years later. Riding the elevator down to the parking lot, his work completed. All that remained was to turn the machine on, input his calibrations and watch miracles happen. If everything went to plan, they would be on the cover of every single newspaper around the world the next day. He got off the elevator and made his way to his car.

Smith drove the few miles home in silence. He had tried the radio, but there was nothing good on. The light traffic made his journey shorter than usual. He got to a red light. Stopped and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He heard a rustle in his pocket and remembered the note. He was out of whiskey. The light turned green. Smith took a left, and a few minutes later was parking his car. He got out, locked the door and turned around. The breeze was still blowing. It was cool on his face. Smith walked around his car and into the Off-license shop.

The clerk looked up from his magazine as Smith walked in. He went into the shop and came back in a few seconds with a bottle of Jack in each hand. He wordlessly placed them in a bag and put the bag on the counter. Smith nodded his head once. A greeting and thanks all rolled up in one small motion. He pulled a few dirty notes out of his wallet and left them on the table. The clerk counted it and nodded back to Smith. Smith picked up the bag and left. He got back in and tried the radio again. Still nothing. He rolled down the window, leaving the air conditioning off. His small contribution for the environment.

He turned into the parking lot of his apartment block. The security guard looked up as Smith drove in before returning to staring at his shoes. Smith got out, and a short elevator ride later was standing outside his apartment. Number 19. The 9 was hanging loose. He put the bag down, fumbled in his pocket for his keys and finally got the door open.

He went straight to the kitchen. Stained pans and empty containers of take out were piled up all over the place. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a glass. Smelled it once. He ran under the tap. The water pooled up in one of the many unwashed pans. He would have to get everything cleaned. But that could be done tomorrow. He opened one of the bottles and took a long draught and poured some in his glass. With the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other he made his way to the ‘living’ room. He fell into his armchair, spilling a bit from his glass as he did. He sat up, licked it off his fingers and placed the bottle and the glass on the arms of the chair. He felt something poking him in the back. He reached around and picked up the remote. He leaned back and felt the upholstery relieve the pressure off his back. He took a long sip from the glass and turned the TV on.

He flipped through the channels aimlessly for a bit, sipping his glass every now and then. He finally settled on a reality show. A hyper-excited man in an obvious wig was yelling something at the screen. Some text came up at the bottom of the screen. Purple. It looked like Japanese. Smith was about to change the channel when suddenly the man’s face was replaced by five girls in bikinis. Smith wondered what Amanda would look like in a bikini.

Smith took another gulp, emptying his glass. He refilled it, and felt the alcohol starting to hit. He smiled to himself. He was imaging being on TV, collecting the Nobel Prize. He started composing a speech in his head, trying not to sound too boring. He could see Amanda smiling at him from the front row. But he gave up. Nayib would take all the credit. He would stand up, walk to the mike and slobber all over himself.

The bottle was almost done. He took one final mouthful. The bitter taste of alcohol filled his mouth. The bikini show had ended. A cooking show was on. Smith was hungry. His stomach was burning. But he was too settled in to move. He turned the TV off and shifted a bit. The bottle dropped from his hand. He was asleep before it hit the ground.