He’d almost crushed the coffee cup in his hand, the ceramic groaning under the pressure. The meeting had been a disaster. Another marketing campaign that fell flat. Another wasted week. Another lecture from the boss. Now, a friendly, familiar voice had the nerve to chime in.
“Whoa, easy there, Dave! You alright? You’re gripping that cup like you’re trying to crush a diamond!”
He forced a smile, a grimace really, and set the cup down with a thud. “Just peachy, Michael,” he said, his voice laced with acid.
Michael, with his infuriatingly cheerful demeanor, continued, “You know, I was thinking… that logo on your mug… it's the Camp Clearwater one, right?”
Dave felt a sudden tremor start in his stomach. “Yes,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“No way! I spent summers there as a kid! You know the waterfront, the mess hall?” Michael's face lit up, radiating positive energy. "Did you ever beat the Blue Team in the final relay race? That was tough."
Dave's jaw tightened. "Yeah," he said, through gritted teeth. He remembers that relay race. He was on the red team, which lost, and which he blamed himself for. "I know it very well."