I'm a sullen husk of a man, constantly worn down by the ever-grinding grit of the clock and calendar, plotting endlessly through a life unlived as all of its joy is ripped away bit by agonizing bit.

To put it another way, I make my living processing insurance claims for the half-dead zombie of a corporation that's been that way since the eighties. The building in which I spend all of my waking hours, my balls in a vice, hasn't seen a renovation since '89. The asbestos is starting to get stale. It's a haunting wasteland of unused space, the only defining characteristic of which is an art noveau installation just large enough to crush me if its supports would only fail, and yet...

Here I still am.

I'm the single father of a girl who could care less; rapidly hurtling into his middle age. I only wish I could say that my public restroom of an ex-wife had died, but sadly: she's run off with one or more partners and substantial alimony payments. She's probably happy. The bitch.

It all comes down to Bri. When she was in middle school, she was a perfect angel, sweet and doting, but now? I might see her once or twice a week. When she needs something. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her and that brilliant smile I haven't seen in years.

To describe myself, I'd start with the paunch, maybe. Or the stone-cold truth that there isn't a single interesting thing about me, I haven't had a date in years, I'm a loser by even my own low standards, and I don't think I really have any friends. It's all just Bri and...

I'm almost certain that she hates me. Brianna's a sullen, disobedient youth who dresses like, quite frankly, a prostitute. All black and nothing that isn't post-90's gothic attire, dismaying me with thick eye-liner, fishnet hose, and platform shoes that are more a hazard than a fashion statement. She'd be cited by OSHA in a heartbeat. Brianna can, at times, be found in her native habitat anywhere from her bedroom to the few places she skulks around, staring into the dim glow of her phone. How long has it been since she's seen sunlight? I'm not sure that science has yet found the answer.

I know—for fact—that she has friends from her school, but she doesn't ever go out. Not like I was, or her god-forsaken mother. I'm sure she has a boyfriend, the way she dresses. Probably two.

As I was considering these things, and how I'd sell my soul to be able to connect with her again, I was driving. NPR was giving a dry report on the latest atrocities on the radio and my speedometer was slowly creeping up to 'if I touch that speed barricade the car's definitely going to flip at least thirty times.' Really just gagging for cop with a quota to pull me over but he's running late. As usual.

Pulling up into the driveway, I'd just been considering: 'well at least she's not hooked on heroin' and, parking my old shitwagon, I lurched out of the vehicle thinking 'well at least I've got a job, even if it makes me wanna gargle razor blades' and, trailing up to the door I was thinking 'well at least I've got a house, even if I'm eyeball deep in debt.' I watched my feet as they seemed to walk on their own, automatically, dragging me up to the door where I hesitated five... seconds? Minutes? Hard to say. Still, I had to pull myself together somehow.

Stepping in, I'd expected an empty living-room, but I was surprised to find Brianna sitting right there, on the couch, beaming ear-to-ear at me. She was dressed typically, all black and dark lipstick, nose ring glittering.

"Daddy!" she practically fucking squeaked, "I missed you!" Next thing I know, she's up and across the room in a a blink, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing me like she needed money or something.

"... Uh..." Couldn't help but swallow. "I missed you too," my voice was reluctant as I reached behind her to pat her on the back.

"Yeah," she squeezes me tighter.

The hug lasted more than was comfortable. Her dusky perfume hit my nose like a punch, and she was warm in my arms.

"So," I clear my throat, hoping to break the hug. "How was your day, honey?"