At precisely ten o’clock, Mathew found himself lingering before the wooden door which framed the boardroom. Contemplating it ruefully, he ran a hand through his hair and fixed his tie. Mathew knocked lightly three times and as protocol demanded, waited a few seconds before pushing the door open. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke welcomed him and he narrowed his eyes and turned his face towards the wall in search of fresh air.

Most of the partners smoked and those that did not may as well have, for the partners went everywhere together in a hazy huddle. Mathew found it difficult to breathe and disguised his distress by patting his chest as if apologising for a cough. He knew that a visit to the boardroom would mark him with a stale odour that would linger all day on his clothes, his skin and the tiny hairs that lined the inside of his nose. Every breath he took for the rest of the day would remind him of his visit that morning.

Even though Mathew had visited the boardroom many times before, he still managed a private chuckle as he glanced about the room. A cool, green paint coated the walls and when coupled with the pale-pink plastic drapes that guarded the windows, made the room look like something out of a seventies porn movie. Against the far wall lay chocolate coloured bookcases heaving under the weight of ancient texts on contract, tort and maritime law. No-one ever had occasion to read them anymore, for the information within them could now be stored on a chip the size of Mathew’s thumb. Nevertheless, the partners kept them there for it impressed the clients and also reminded the partners of the good old days. Some of them even enjoyed opening the books just to sniff the pages that smelled of glue and old cheese.

Hanging on the walls were paintings of horses posing regally in front of magnificent English estates. In other places there were photographs of horses raced by the partners, in which the owners stood haughtily by the animal under the heading “winning connections.” Somewhere in the gloom, those connections now sat contemplating Mathew, assessing him, summing him up as they might a galloper at the sales. Did he have promise? Was he a stayer? Might he be expensive to keep?

The senior partner, Tom, began talking in a thick smoker’s voice, separating each spluttered sentence with a heavy draw against his cigarette. Tom had about sixty-five years but had never given any thought to retirement, for the law was all that he knew…and loved. Years of treating clients like fools until they proved themselves to the contrary had left him incapable of interacting socially with others on any reasonable level. Mathew often saw him out with his wife at restaurants on the fringe of the city. There they would sit for an hour consuming their meals without a single word passing between them. Despite his incredible wealth, Tom wore soft, black shoes from Target- the kind fastened up at the side by a zipper. His eyes were continuously bloodshot, tortured over the years by too much smoke and booze. His crumpled face hid stashes of sweat and spittle and housed capillaries that branched out like family trees down his nose and cheeks. As he began to talk, he breathed out the words with the smoke that had resurfaced after visiting his rotting lungs. Mathew let the words dissipate with the poison.

The dressing down complete, Mathew rose from his chair, nodded politely to the assembly and left quickly in search of cooler, cleaner air. Once outside, he leant back against the closed door and breathed deeply. He let his head fall back lightly against the wood and stared at the roof. At that moment, his secretary spied him from beyond the typing pool and made her way towards him. He watched her weave her way expertly through the maze of violet-coloured partitioning that divided the workspaces of the typing pool into quadrants. She could have made her way through the chaos with her eyes closed. Each tiny space housed a computer that beeped and whispered, operated by salon-tanned secretaries that urged the hands of their watches on to morning tea time. Occasionally, they bobbed up over the walls of the partition to ask a question of another or to share a joke. When they saw Mathew, they smiled nervously, flicked their hair and resumed their seats.

“Clear my diary for ever,” said Mathew, loosening his tie. “Tell them I quit.”