The night after going to The Hornet for beers with Buddy and meeting Carrie, Evans has a shift at his night data entry job. He sleeps until the late afternoon and sits for a few hours in his room nursing a cup of coffee, waiting for the five pints of beer to pass quietly from his system. Then he makes himself a sandwich for lunch and goes to work.

A trip on the street car and then the subway delivers Evans to the suburban office building where he works. Arriving just before eight o'clock, he knocks on the side door until the night janitor lets him in. He punches his time-card, leaves his jacket and lunch in a locker, and goes into the file room when he removes a fat binder of sales invoices dated from April to July of 1984. In the empty main office area he sits at his assigned desk, boots up the computer and begins to meticulously enter the data of each transaction.

The work is easy and repetitive. Evans feels free to let his mind wander, and he sits for long stretches thinking about his situation. He often sits and thinks about Trish. He thinks about the afternoon when he came home to tell her he didn't want to marry her, and that he was leaving that very day. With his hangover making him more susceptible to melodrama, he can feel tears welling when he thinks of it. There is a brief moment where he thinks about hanging himself (but how do you tie the knot?), shooting himself (where do you get a gun?) or leaping off the top of a tall building (don't they keep roof doors locked?). With a sigh, he looks out the windows at the darkening sky, looks back at his monitor, and starts typing in more numbers.

At midnight Evans eats a sandwich, and then goes outside. He puts a wooden stop in the door so he can get back in, squats against the side of the building and smokes a cigarette. The lights from the parking lots prevent him from seeing the stars and the sound of cars on the nearby expressway make a constant throbbing hum. He smokes and tries to think about the girl he met at the bar last night, Carrie.

Carrie. Pretty eyes. Nice girl. Interesting to talk to. He thinks about kissing her, and his mind flicks to Trish, his heartbroken ex, with tears in her eyes. Again, like the flash of an anonymous camera he sees a noose, and as quick as a flash the image is gone. His heart sinks.

As he sits entering sales data from the eighties into a database, he tries again and again to think about Carrie. There is always the same progression of thoughts: Carrie, then Trish, and then death. He keys in data until two in the morning, shuts everything off, punches out and leaves.

On the transit ride home, our man Evans tries to think through these death-wish images. He knows that does not want to die. If anything, he just wants to live without this fucking black cloud following him around. But there it is: every time he thinks about Trish, there is the flash of death, with a current of emotion that runs through his chest and into his stomach, leaving him feeling vaguely sick. He figures it's guilt and closes his eyes.

It's three in the morning when he gets in, and the phone starts ringing before he even gets his jacket off. It's a furnished room that he's rented, and the phone is included. There are really only two people that have his new number: his supervisor at the office and his old friend Buddy. So either the office burned down after he left tonight, or...

Evans picks up the phone. It's Buddy.

"Where've you been?" Buddy asks. "I've been calling you all night."

"I had to work. You know what time it is?"

"Listen, you left too early last night. I think that chick Carrie wanted you to stick around a bit more. Did you have a good time talking to her?"

Carrie. Again, Evans gets the flash: Carrie, Trish, death by hanging. Why hanging? "Yeah, she seems all right. Why?"

"Well, she asked me if I could give her your phone number."

Our man Evans sits down on the side of his bed and reaches into his jacket pocket to find his cigarettes. He gets that feeling again, that flash of emotion running through him. The sudden desire, lasting only the time it takes a heart to beat, to be dead and away from all this. Away from sensation of any kind.

"You there?"

"Yeah. What did you tell her?"

"I didn't want to give out your number without you saying it's okay, so I said I didn't have it with me."

"She's not an idiot. She knows you have a cell phone, so you would have my number with you."

"Yeah, but if she's not an idiot, then she would know it's against protocol for me to give out a friend's number without clearance, so she went along with it anyway. So, do you want me to give her your number or not?"

Evans pauses to put a cigarette between his lips. He knows he's not ready for this. It's been only a few weeks since he ran out on Trish. That all still remains unresolved. He's in no shape to start dating, that's for certain. And yet, he did feel a connection with the girl.

He flicks his lighter. "Yeah, go ahead. You didn't tell her anything about me did you?"

"No. I'll talk to her tomorrow, cool?"

"Sure, cool. Thanks."

They hang up and Evans sits staring into nothingness, considering this turn of events. He is not ready for this. He has only one desire, most of the time: to drink until he can't feel anymore, and the rest of the time he spends considering the absolute impossibility of his position. He is a coward, a betrayer, a loser, a fool.

He finishes his cigarette and lies back on his bed. Without taking off his clothes he turns off the lamp and stares into the darkness until the darkness stares back into him.