The patent application was a slap in the face. Arthur had spent months, fueled by instant coffee and a burning ambition, perfecting his self-folding laundry basket. He’d envisioned a world where everyone had one, a world where he, Arthur, was revered. And now, the same damn thing, described almost word for word, belonged to some obscure inventor in Idaho. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the rejection letter. He crumpled it, then smoothed it out, staring at the small print. He’d appeal. He’d find a loophole. He would.
The lawyer’s office felt sterile, cold. The air conditioning hummed, a mechanical judgment of his failures. He detailed his invention, his improvements, subtly exaggerating the flaws in the other man’s design. He felt a twitch in his eye, a nervous tic that had been developing ever since that initial discovery. He imagined the lawyer, already paid, was less concerned than he was.
His hands, restless, drummed on the polished table. He described his version again, even more elegantly. He added flourishes to his explanations, describing the elegant angles of his design. He wanted to scream, to lash out. He wanted *it*. He needed *it*.