A knock on his apartment door. An aggressive one.
Harold shot straight up with wide open eyes. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Especially at this hour.
Harold eased out of bed, careful not to wake the body next to him. Doris. Darlene. D something. He slipped into his robe as he crept towards the front door, running through a short list of possible visitors. None of them particularly pleasant.
A quick peek through the peephole confirmed it. The worst possible option of all.
“Have a blast,” his wife said, handing him a folder full of papers before disappearing down the hall.
The Weekday One Hundred 