It’s hell working here in Jersey with that pervert Twitchy who sits behind the makeshift partition in this crummy little office. I listen for sounds coming from him. He’s dead quiet back there. On the phone I whisper to my friend Jason from the New York office that I’m sure Twitchy is masturbating. Jason goes totally hysterical. Says I have a vivid imagination. You think so? I say, desperate to be back on Madison Avenue again. This job transfer was one huge fucking mistake. I tell Jason that Twitchy insists I have lunch with him in this hideous diner every day, where the hot roast beef gravy is gray. He always smiles at me over the menu. And he never stops, you know, twitching. His eyes twitch. His lips twitch. His hair, thinning, twitches. I don’t like thinking about what else might be twitching back behind that partition. Jason tells me I should knock it over like by accident. Are you nuts? I say. Jason tells me then you’ll know for sure.