Just when I was contemplating chugging the bottle of whiskey Mr. Robinson had gifted me for the third time, Jordan and Abby knocked.

"Abby and I wanted to come by and congratulate you on your presentation. How did it go?" Jordan asked from the doorframe.

"Terribly. He said Hong Kong was too unsafe compared to other countries like Japan—he must have spent five minutes straight praising their whiskey! I don't know why I complimented his Tennessee whiskey if I'd known it would put his mind on booze the entire time. I feel like my hard work was for nothing."

"Welcome to our world," Abby sighed. "What's the adage again, 'life is like a box of chocolates?' That's our work here, except I got stuck with all the caramel ones."

"I love caramel," I said reassuringly. "Haven't you ever had one of those caramel apples at the fair, you know, the ones that are so sticky you think they'll rip your teeth out?"

"Is it car-a-mel or car-mel?" Jordan asked. "Why does everyone here think it's two syllables?"

"More importantly than that, why have you been so gloomy today, Mike? You need a break," Abby declared.

I was pretty sure it was car-mel with two syllables, but I'd never thought about it before. Two felt natural.

"I've been craving a burger," I said. "I should go get myself a pity dinner."

"You should! I'm going out tonight too to drown my sorrows."

"Wish I could join you. I'm gonna head back and get some work done. Don't stay too late, Mike," Jordan said.

"Do you actually want a pity dinner?" Abby asked once Jordan left. "I'll be downtown anyway—I'd invite you to drinks, but I think you and that whiskey bottle have a date."

"Sure, Abby. Tomorrow's the weekend, I can treat myself a little."

"TGIF, am I right? Meet me at my office at 6:30."

Abby's office was greener than mine thanks to the potted plants she kept on her desk next to a spray bottle and a lamp. She didn't have a window, but not many of us new hires did.

"The lamp turns itself on when I turn the ceiling light off," she explained, and flicked off the light to demonstrate.

"Aren't you worried about wasting power?"

"With how much power the servers drain in the basement, what's one lamp? They've been so loud today, I can feel the vibrations through my floor."

"I haven't noticed."

"By the way, Heather's joining us. You know Heather, right?"

"I sent her an email earlier!"

"That makes you besties."

She swapped her high heels back to Converses, and we walked to the lobby, where Heather was already waiting for us.

"I saw your email, Mike, but I'll respond Monday—oh my gosh, Abby, I love that coat on you! That gray matches your bag and lipstick so well. Is that dark cherry? I think I saw that in the store the other day," Heather burst out in one breath.

"I know, right? I feel so C-suite."

"It's a good look on you. It's like, who's that actress... Michelle Yeoh?" Heather observed. "That's like the exact shade I saw at Saks last weekend."

"The dark cherry? I think they called it something else. Something Italian."

I was happy letting them talk as we walked downtown past the giggling college students and the streetlamps' shadows, since I could see our destination: a burger with golden buns dimpled like grandma's smile, a disk of pure muscle that had just finished sizzling, a slice of tomato that dripped with nature's bounty, and I could hear the crunch of the lettuce as I leaned in, dumbfounded except to moan in delicious ecstasy—

"Mike, you've been awfully quiet. Mike had a sales presentation to Mr. Robinson that didn't go so well today," Abby explained to Heather, who watched me attentively. My stomach rumbled.

"Oh no, Mike, that's sad to hear. I know how much you've been working on that Hong Kong proposal."

"It could've gone better and it could've gone worse."

"He probably doesn't want to talk about it, Abby, because it didn't go well. What are y'all doing this weekend?"

"College friend's coming to visit, and she and I are going to hit the town," Abby said. "That's Saturday. Sunday I'm busy adulting."

"My gosh, that sounds fun. I'm flying to LA for the weekend. We have a beach house there and I'm throwing a little shindig—do any of you want to come?"

"Don't think I have the time," I said.

We entered the gastropub, which I've heard was one of the more chic spots to open in our city recently. You knew it was chic because the menus had typewriter font and there was a chalkboard on the wall with the daily specials. This included the daily burger: grass-fed beef, blue cheese, pear, arugula.

"I'll take the daily special burger, medium-rare," I told the server.

"Anything to drink?" he asked. "If you flip over your menu to the back side, we have mocktails, and we also have a full bar."

"Iced tea, please."

"The oolong-lychee infusion or the—"

"The regular one."

I considered myself a sociable person who was hip enough to go to trendy restaurants, and I was glad that the restaurant industry had blossomed since Infinitech had come into town. It was the university, too, that had brought so many of us younger people from all over, and with that brewed a melting pot of cuisines. Personally, I'd rather have a good burger than anything that tries to use the plate as a canvas.

"Do you ever wish we lived somewhere better?" Abby asked after a group of sweaty college students passed within smelling distance as they left the gastropub.

"I like it here. They're simple people with good heads on their shoulders," I said defensively, despite being as new to the area as she.

"They're a bunch of hicks."

"I like it here too," Heather said airily between sips of a Moscow mule. "It's not as snowy as Gstaad or as sunny as Bora-Bora, but I like it here. It's homey."

"You are so bougie!" Abby laughed.

"I'm a woman of the world."

The waiter brought our food before I could interject. There it was, the crown jewel of my mind's eye. I took a bite, and waited for memories of summertime by dad's grill to emerge—but I couldn't feel the muggy heat and my bare feet in grass. Still a good burger. I'd have it again.

"There's nothing like a good burger after a long day," I observed. "Hits the spot."

"So anyway, not to distract from our previous thrilling conversation, why do you think they're all hicks here?" Heather asked Abby.

"Have you ever met Dennis Zane? People like him are why. He always asks me these weird questions on the train that he gets from his chauvinistic podcasts. Like if I have tattoos."

"Dennis is kinda cute."

"He really isn't," Abby said, drawing out the last syllable in her signature way.

"How about Jordan?"

"He's disconcerting."

"Like 'awkward nerd' vibes or—"

"Hannibal Lecter."

I said nothing during most of this conversation since there wasn't much room for cross-talk while eating French fries. If I were a glass-half-empty kind of guy, I'd think that a pity dinner ought to have me as the guest of honor, but I was really there for the burger. It was the sort of burger I could have once a week and be happy. If I had to name it, I'd name it the "TGIF burger."

When we finished our food and paid the bill (Heather treated us), Abby made it clear that she saw this dinner as a pre-game, and Heather lived in one of the fancier buildings downtown, so Abby went back with me to drop her things off and turn back around. The city was buzzing around us as we walked, and I felt like I had never left college. I was looking at my LinkedIn page the other day, and my college profile picture looked so baby-faced that nobody would ever recognize me now.

"That was exactly what I needed," I remarked to Abby.

"You're so easily satisfied. One burger and you forget that your presentation was torn to shreds. You need to take less from other people, Mike. I'm not saying go out there and slug them in the face, but you have to be less complacent."

"Got it. You know, when you mentioned the tattoo thing earlier, it reminded me that back in college, I'd always guess what tattoos people had at parties. And I'd always get it right."

I didn't think it was fair play to use my situation to my advantage, but I was feeling a bit loose and it seemed like Abby could use some good cheer.

"Try me."

"I'm getting some sort of animal vibe from you."

"That's generic, anyone could guess that."

"I've got it: a butterfly on your right ankle."

Abby looked taken aback, and I could see a faint smile.

"But why do I have a butterfly?"

"I'm not sure."

"There's an old Chinese tale about a man who wonders if he's dreaming of a butterfly, or if he's a butterfly dreaming of a man. It's meant to symbolize the transitory nature of reality. I don't know, I just thought it was cool."

"It's interesting you say that, because I thought it was a 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee' thing. That would have made more sense to me."

"That makes no sense."

We spent the rest of the train ride largely in silence, her on her phone and me staring off into space, avoiding locking eyes with the tired businessman across from us and imagining that the train was a schooner on the sea. Abby waved goodbye as I left and told me to have a good weekend, though I didn't think I would.

I woke up at my usual time to Dolly Parton singing, and I knew I'd see the same text from my dad. That song was stuck in my head as I stumbled to the dresser and contemplated pouring myself a "cup of ambition" before realizing I'd have to make myself coffee and that caffeine too early made me jittery.

"Morning, Larry!" I waved. He waved back, hitting his cane against the ceiling light again.

"Ope, probably shouldn't do that!" he laughed.

"Someone's had their morning coffee!"

"You know it!"

I hurried past Larry, who was having too much fun in retirement to worry about property damage, to catch the train.

"...you don't look like you'd have a tattoo," Dennis said to Abby, who wouldn't expect me to have a sly response of my own.

"Back in college, I'd always guess what tattoos people had at parties. And I'd always get it right," I said. Abby rolled her eyes.

"OK, what's your guess?"

"Butterfly on your right ankle. You meant it to symbolize a story from the Zhuangzi, about a man who dreamt he was a butterfly—and when he woke up, he didn't know if he were a man dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a man. And that's supposed to symbolize the transitory nature of life."

I did some research last night after I got home.

"Damn, you're good."

"You know, I'd have guessed a butterfly would be like a 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee' thing," Dennis observed.

"I'd have thought so too!" I assented.

"This reminds me of something from Troy Bentley's podcast. Have you ever listened to him, Mike?"

"I know, 'The Measure of a Man.'"

"Exactly! You know exactly what I'm talking about. So the premise is that modern society emasculates men. It grabs people down there and rips everything clean off, and then goes through with a razor and shaves our chest hair until we look like sissies. Everything around us nowadays is meant to keep us down..."

I was a bit distracted because I still had the Dolly Parton in my head, so I let myself run through the rest of the conversation on autopilot. It turned to Mr. Robinson and away from Mr. Robinson, and force of habit lifted me out of my seat and to follow the rest into Infinitech. It was starting to feel like a second home.

I couldn't tell you much of what happened that day because it was starting to blend with those previous Fridays, but I remembered running into Jordan at the coffee line, Mr. Ryerson stopping by my office, and one elevator ride up and one elevator ride down. My last thought that day, walking back to the train station one half-full whiskey bottle and an unsuccessful presentation later, was that the whiskey would go well with a burger. Over the weekend, I decided.

I woke up in a familiar time and place to a text from my dad. That weekend would have to wait.