I woke up to the same article as every other Friday. The message resonated with me: people who won the lottery were happy. I'd won the lottery in a metaphorical way by having had the opportunity to savor life's finest moments over and over again. Unlimited refills from the fountain of youth were hard to pass up.

"How's work?" my dad had asked.

"Same old, same old."

"Nothing fun?"

"Work is work, fun is fun."

I didn't ask him about his gout, and he didn't say anything about it. Maybe if my dad were happier, he'd let the gout bother him less.

After I dressed myself, I went to the restroom and wetted a comb, and parted my hair ever so slightly. My dad always told me to "dress for success," and the little details added up. I couldn't leave home without my fun socks, though. I went with my usual red and green, and sang along to the Dolly Parton that only lived in my head.

"Morning, Larry!" I waved to my neighbor. Larry waved back with his cane in hand, and hit it against the ceiling light.

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

"With how expensive our rent is, we can afford it!"

"That's exactly right! What's got you dressed so spiffy today?"

"Big presentation at work today. Oh, what a beautiful morning! I can feel that today's the day."

Larry leaned against his cane with both hands. "I wish I had your energy. Don't waste your youthful days—someday you'll be as old and bony as me."

"I won't. You only live once, right?"

"And one life isn't enough," Larry concluded, and he went on his way.

I hurried outside and to the train station. I liked spring more than I liked winter, but sometimes when I saw snow out, all I wanted to do was go make a snow angel or chuck a snowball at someone. You couldn't do that in slush. The season had passed: I'd have to wait until winter. Until then, I'd enjoy the crisp air and the smell of flowers waking.

"Hey Dennis! Hey Abby!" I waved to my loyal compatriots.

"...you don't look like you'd have a tattoo," Dennis said to Abby, whose face didn't share Dennis's scientific curiosity.

"It's a butterfly, on my ankle."

"I don't see it," Dennis said, looking at Abby's Converses.

"Obviously you can't see it, Dennis."

"Left or right?"

Abby ignored his question and waved to me: "Hey Mike, what's got you dressed up so sharply today?"

"Big presentation at work. And I think business casual suits me. Say, do any of you want to buy a lottery ticket with me this morning? Something feels lucky in the air today."

"It beats talking about tattoos," Abby said. "Sure."

"Troy Bentley says that only poor people buy lottery tickets."

"Troy Bentley also says that soy milk is turning the kids gay, so perhaps we ought not to listen to him," I said teasingly, putting a finger to my lips.

"You're taking it out of context, Mike, but I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Our stop's next," Abby said, switching her Converses for high heels.

We walked as quickly as Abby's footwear allowed to the Dunkin' Donuts, weaving our way in between fellow commuters. I gave her the sacred numbers, and a few bucks later our riches were secured. I decided I'd get a pastry at work later. The donuts were too sweet and the coffee tasted like it had been percolated through someone's socks.

Dennis caught up to me in the coffee line a few hours later. The thrill of untold wealth couldn't keep me awake in the same way coffee could.

"Working hard or hardly working, my friend?" he asked, putting his arm over my shoulder. "You gotta take it easy. I don't know how you keep that smile on your face working the hours you do."

"It's a Friday, what can I say? Good luck on your date tonight."

Dennis's eyes brightened. "How'd you know?"

"You look lovestruck. And you're wearing your nice watch."

"Dang, was it that obvious?"

"I think you'll kill it today. I bet she'll dig the Californian vibe," I said gesturing toward his boat shoes.

"Ooh, Dennis has a date?" Jordan said, sidling into line.

"Just a girl from the university. Philosophy major."

"Where'd you meet her?" Jordan asked. "Nose-deep in Also Sprach Zarathrustra?"

"Online. If I may tell you two a secret," he said in a whisper, "I was more attracted to her physique than the philosophy."

"I think that a lot of Western philosophy is overrated. Too dense, too heavy on the eternal damnation. There's a lot we can learn from Eastern works like the Zhuangzi," Jordan explained.

"Abby has a tattoo of a butterfly from that, actually," I said.

"Oh really? That's surprisingly tasteful coming from her. I'll have a large latte and a khachapuri."

"Coffee. Black," Dennis grunted, and when he got his coffee he left us alone.

"Do I sound like a prick when I talk about philosophy?" Jordan asked. "I know I sound like a prick, I just felt like I had to stand Dennis up."

"He deserves it. You're good."

"What's got you dressed up today?"

"Presentation for Mr. Robinson on expanding to Hong Kong," I said, and took a sip of coffee.

"Hong Kong's a good place to do business, or anywhere around there. Hong Kong, Thailand, Taiwan, Burma—they call it the Milk Tea Alliance. An upwardly mobile, democratically aspirational middle class is great for the economy."

"What got you so interested in this stuff anyway, Jordan?"

"My parents told me I should learn Chinese because it was a global language, and I don't know, I stuck with it. There's something exhilarating about delving into five thousand years of history, and truth be told, I think I was hired here because I could work with the international clients."

"You should give this presentation and not me!"

"You'll do great, Mike." He gave me a nod and left.

Just after noon, Abby knocked on my door and let herself in. I was finishing my lunch at my desk. Typically I enjoyed the chance to stretch my legs, but something in today's coffee had me amped up. Or that I'd won the lottery.

"Did you win anything?" I asked.

"We both won. I don't know how you guessed those numbers," Abby said. "Can I give you a hug?"

"You can give me a hug."

Abby seemed to feel better after that, and took the spare seat in my office.

"So, are we supposed to celebrate or something?" she asked.

"I'm gonna go home straight after work and sleep the week off. But don't be lazy like me: go do something bold."

"I'm gonna redownload Hinge and see who wants a sugar momma," she said with a chuckle.

"How about you ask Jordan out? He was talking about the Zhuangzi, and I remember you said you had that butterfly tattoo, and it made me think of that story—"

"He told you to say that. I don't know what game he's playing, but—"

"All me, I promise. I don't even think he likes you. And I know you don't like him."

"Then why would I ask him out?"

"I think you two would get along if you tried. It's just my intuition, the same intuition that picked those numbers."

Abby shrugged. "That was a lucky guess and nothing more. I'm gonna go back to my office and get some work done, but good luck on your presentation."

"And good luck tonight."

She was always so calm every time she won. I'd gotten to know Abby a bit, if I said so myself, these past few Fridays, and she always held her emotions so close to her chest. She was hard to read. It was good business practice at Infinitech, where you never knew who was going to betray you. I was grateful that she'd chosen to share what she did with me.

A bit later, Mr. Ryerson came by.

"Hey Mike, how's it going?" Mr. Ryerson asked. "You're looking smart today with that hair."

"Better than ever!" I said. "I'm still putting the finishing touches on the proposal packet, but I printed out a draft copy if you want to see."

Mr. Ryerson took it and did a quick flip-through.

"I like how you used the heavy-stock paper. This is good stuff! I think this shows how you've taken feedback well and grown in your core knowledge areas. I can tell graphic design is your passion."

"Thanks, Jim."

"I think Mr. Robinson will be impressed. Keep it up, I just wanted to surprise you with a little pep talk."

"And it's appreciated. Send my wishes of good luck to Jennifer with her ballet recital."

Mr. Ryerson chuckled, like he did after telling me dad jokes.

"They just run around in circles, and I'm not sure she's old enough to understand the idea of luck. She's so confident. What I'd give for that youthful innocence."

"To be young again."

"Take care," he said, and left.

Time flew as straight as an arrow, unwaveringly sailing toward its mark, and soon I found myself facing Mildred and her mints. It wasn't my first time here, and I had a certain feeling it wouldn't be my last, but I had started to look forward to this part of my day when I once felt dread. Mr. Robinson was jocular in his own way, and if he'd known how much I'd grown, I knew he'd be proud of me.

"Good luck with your presentation Mike, though you won't need it—Mr. Robinson was in a good mood earlier today," she said as sweetly as one of those breakfast donuts.

"Thanks, Mildred, I appreciate it," I said, and I walked in.

"Nice little shack you have here," I quipped to him, staring beyond his eyes to the lightly clouded expanse beyond.

"I make do with what they give me. Whiskey?"

I poured myself a glass. I'd learned by then to discern odors of dark cherry, sandalwood, and musk in its fragrance that perfumed my esophagus—who was I kidding? It tasted like firewater, and I didn't know how Mr. Robinson tolerated the stuff.

"This is the finest Tennessee whiskey I've ever had," I said.

"It's the finest I've ever bought," he quipped. "I suppose this report of yours I'm holding has brought you here. There's some good stuff in here, I have to admit."

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson."

"Who's your boss?"

"Jim. Jim Ryerson."

"And does he like his martinis shaken and not stirred?" He chuckled at his remark.

"Anyhow, what did you think?"

"It's a fine report, especially for someone of your tenure," he said, putting the report down to signify he knew its contents intimately. "You make well-reasoned assumptions—I'd go as far as to call your ideas good. I understand that Jim nominated you to write this Hong Kong proposal, but you've taken to it like a fish to water. I can tell you've done your homework."

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson."

"I'm curious about these figures you cite in the middle, though: if they're to be believed, we'd corner the market in about six months. That's fast, no? I love fast—I love NASCAR. But if I told my boss and my boss's boss and so on down the tower of turtles that we'd claim this growth, why, they'd look at me like I'd grown horns!"

"I believe we can match those numbers, if executed with precision, and—"

"You've had too much of that whiskey, my friend, if you think that by the time this plan gets down to earth and has had everyone poking and prodding at it, that it's going to be executed with precision. This is risky, and unless you know something I don't about fate, it's not in the cards."

"I know a little something about fate," I said, a glint in my smile.

"Tell me."

"I'm stuck in a time loop, where I relive this day over and over again. Eighty-eight so far, by my count. I've heard you say no to me every way you could possibly think. I've even heard you say yes, and I live the rest of my day screaming 'TGIF' from the rooftops before my alarm clock drags me back to earth. I've heard you say yes simply because I gave you a smirk and a handshake as sharp as a whipcrack—I've heard you say no because my outfit rubbed you the wrong way or you called my attitude 'smarmy'. I've heard you won that Kandinsky off your old mentor playing golf—I say that not just to prove I'm telling the truth, but to prove I know the sort of person you are, and I know that despite your tough reputation you're not calloused at heart, and that you'd love nothing more to release me from my endless torment."

Mr. Robinson's jaw lowered, and his jowls fluttered like flags in the wind. I knew I had won.

"Mike, you're stuck in a time loop and you've wasted eighty-eight days of your life fretting over what I'm gonna say about your presentation? Damn, you need to find yourself something better to do! Eighty-eight days and this is the best you've got?" He paused a moment, and I saw sympathy in his eyes. "Sure, I believe you, I'm sold. I'll bring this up Monday when I meet with the team."

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson."

"Please tell me you've done something else with those three months of your life besides worrying over this little piece of paper. Have you found love? Have you found happiness?"

"I won the lottery," I said.

"You won the lottery and you're still in my office? Have you lost your mind?"

"Winning the lottery didn't change much. I shared the winning numbers with one of my friends, and all she did was thank me."

"If you gave her the winning numbers, she'd better do a lot more than thank you. But let me tell you something, Mike. I have enough stock options to retire from here any day I want. I've built up a nest egg by putting my nose to the grindstone like all the other worker bees here. I'm richer than a poor kid who grew up in the backwaters of Tennessee who was the first in his family to attend college could possibly dream. But has that money bought me happiness? No. Guess what did."

"I'm not sure, Mr. Robinson."

"It's the satisfaction in a hard day's work that's bought me happiness."

"That's an inspirational story, Mr. Robinson."

"I'm starting to think why you're stuck in this mess is an attitude problem. Lord knows I've told you that this Hong Kong proposal is above water more times than I can count. You're here because you've let your career ambitions define you: I know the sort of guy you are, and I can read it in your face. You're the sort of guy who walks around prouder than a peacock that you've got this job and you're happy here: it's 'TGIF' and 'I hate Mondays' all around, plus those fun socks I see you're wearing. You're so used to coasting by and bobbing on the waves that as soon as reality hits you, bam! You'd wish you could charge headlong through the windows behind me and defenestrate yourself. Do you know what that word means?"

"To toss myself out of a window—I've used it many times."

"Exactly. It's not enough for you to hear that your presentation is good or that you're such a nice guy for sharing your lottery winnings: you have to hear from someone that your entire attitude is valid, and that you're right. You don't even know what you stand for, but you need to know you're right. Humor me, Mike. Tell me about your friends here at work. Surely you've gotten to know them a lot better these past few Fridays."

I pulled up a chair, and sat to face Mr. Robinson eye to eye.

"There's Abby Ji, who I was just talking about. She's cynical—I'd like to think the only person she doesn't hate here is me, but maybe she's too polite to tell me to my face how much my smile annoys her. Most of all, she hates the 'hicks' around here who treat her differently because she's an outsider to their way of thinking, or that they exoticize her or treat her like some wilting flower who lived her best days back in her sorority."

"She sounds like she's been having a rough time here. I can guess what she's going to do now that she's made her fortune, thanks to you."

"And what is that, Mr. Robinson?"

"She'll turn in her papers and flee this place, because she's not waiting for someone to tell her she's a 'girlboss' or whatever the young people are calling it these days. She's going to board that plane out of Casablanca faster than you can say 'rosebud,' and she won't regret a thing. Who else is there?"

"There's Jordan. I set him up on a date with Abby a few times, though neither of them seemed to like it too much. He's a smart guy, young and hungry, and he sees Asia as the future. All I know about that Milk Tea Alliance or anything over yonder, I learned from him. Abby hates him because he keeps yammering about 'five thousand years of civilization' and everything—"

"And I don't blame her for fleeing. This Jordan guy sounds a hair more qualified than you to be leading this Hong Kong expansion, if I say so myself. How'd you like it if I let him lead the project? You're easy to read behind that defeated smile of yours—you'd not like it much, would you?"

"I'd be happy for him."

"But you'd envy him. You see, poor attitude once again! You have oodles of moolah and yet you still care that he gets to lead this and not you. He's gonna be stuck in Hong Kong away from his friends and family for years if he gets saddled with this... not sure how many years of history he can study over there before he gets homesick. A real leader would have walked up to my desk and suggested I talk to this Jordan guy. Who else do you know here?"

"There's Dennis. His full name's Dennis Zane, which is easy because it rhymes with 'insane,' and that's his political views."

"What makes him insane?"

"He's obsessed with this online maniac named Troy Bentley—"

"Oh, 'The Measure of a Man!' That guy's a riot. What's up with Dennis?"

"He's just tiresome. He's going out on a date with this philosophy major from the university tonight, where he talks her ear off at dinner, and I've never stuck around to hear what happens next."

"You linger a lot on this dating stuff. You're telling me you've gone eighty-eight days without finding love? Troy Bentley's right about something, your generation's low on testosterone! You're as precious as a Beanie Baby. Get us some more whiskey."

I brought the bottle and the glasses back, and poured Mr. Robinson some. Often by now he'd have kicked me out, but this was a good conversation.

"That hits the spot. Can you taste the cherry?"

"And the musk," I lied.

"So just those two? Anyone else in your life?"

"There's Heather. She's some heiress from some antebellum family down south."

"Heather O'Hara, she couldn't be?"

"That's her."

Mr. Robinson put down his glass. "Heather O'Hara works here? Her family's owned Tennessee since my great-grandparents' time. What's she doing working at Infinitech?"

"I really don't know, I don't talk to her much."

"For someone like her to be working instead of watching the fields be worked, a sweet Southern iced tea in hand, she's either a few breadcrumbs short of a loaf or kookier than a jack-in-the-box!"

"She's nice. Abby and I got dinner with her once."

"And what did you think of her Southern charm?"

I paused a moment to let the whiskey drain down my throat. "I like her, but she's too rich for my blood."

"And you're richer than foie gras! So you're really a bit small-minded, if I might put it bluntly. I think if you went out on the town tonight and lived a little, you'd be happier. What I'm getting from all your friends is that they might not be as 'nice' as you, or have Little Miss Sunshine dispositions, but they all get a good night's sleep without worrying about their little business proposals. You said it yourself: TGIF. Go out and enjoy the sunshine before the sun sets—take a walk by the water down there and buy yourself an ice cream."

"That's childish, Mr. Robinson."

"We're all children at heart. I'd go myself, but it would spoil my appetite—my wife and I are going out to steak tonight. It's the perfect day to celebrate."

I stood slowly, weak from the hard truths.

"Go on, you're free to leave. Don't spoil the surprise for Jordan, would you?"

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson," I said, my mouth dry, and left him to contemplate the Kandinsky.

"You two were in there chatting up a storm! He must've really liked your presentation," Mildred beamed.

"In a matter of speaking, yeah. These mints are great."

"Help yourself to the container," she said. "I have five more in that closet."

I left my office just as Jordan and Abby were coming to greet me.

"What, clocking out so early?" Jordan asked.

"Mr. Robinson gave me permission."

"So he fired you?"

"Oh, no—he said that my presentation was so great that I'd earned myself a few hours off. In a matter of speaking. Who wants ice cream?"

"I've had my fill of Friday," Abby proclaimed. "Let me grab my bag."

We made an about-face, leaving Jordan to do his thing. When he got the good news from Mr. Robinson, he'd surely leave early too. Or stay at work all night finetuning my intellectual labor, but what did it mean to me? It was Friday!

Abby came out of her office in her Converses, and we left Infinitech as happy as two lottery winners could be. It was sunny out, that beautiful time of day when the sun had warmed everything but the day hadn't yet cooled. There was a little park by the lake I'd not been to since winter, with a botanical garden right by that had just reopened for the season. It was a beautiful day with no kids and families out to ruin the sights.

"I was promised ice cream, so where is it?" Abby asked teasingly.

"I see a cart over there."

I rifled through my pocket for loose change and found enough for two ice creams.

"Which one do you want? I think Spongebob tastes the best," I said.

"Elsa. What better mascot for a frozen treat?"

We ambled through the park, back and forth, and honestly there wasn't much to see. There were trees and grass and everything to make it a park, but it was a prelude for the botanical garden. You couldn't even toss a Frisbee without worrying it'd sail into the lake. It had been a long time since I'd seen green places as anything but barriers between me and work.

"Look up there, you can see Infinitech!" I said, craning my head upward to that steel goliath. It looked like a supervillain's lair.

"The prison we've just escaped?"

"That's the one."

"I'm moving out as soon as I can. I'll give Infinitech two weeks' courtesy so I can settle my things, and then I'm headed back home."

"Where's home for you, Abby?"

"Southern California. Nice little town with a whole ton of Vietnamese people. My parents learned the language to understand what they were gossiping about at the grocery store. But they want to move to the Bay Area."

"That's cool."

"Are you gonna stick around here?"

"I don't know. I think I could use a vacation at least, but this place has grown on me. It's a bit like home."

"You're suffering from Stockholm syndrome. Leave this place while you still can."

"I don't know," I said. I gave the popsicle stick one last lick.

"You finished that quickly!"

"It was good. Tasted like pineapple."

"No it didn't."

"I'm just messing with you. Anyway, what a day it's been. It's a rare mood for me to be this peppy. How does the botanical garden sound?"

"What else am I going to do on a Friday?" Abby asked, and we walked to the gate and bought two tickets.

The rest of the day was unremarkable; Abby and I had parted ways after the botanical garden. Nothing happened there except that a butterfly landed on my nose—Abby tried to take a picture, but it flew away too quickly. She was nice, and we were friends, but there was only so much of each other we needed to see in a day. She wanted to go shopping, but that felt too rich for my blood. So I ordered delivery and ate fried rice from a to-go container on my couch while watching Seinfeld, the thinking man's TV show.

I hadn't brought the whiskey bottle with me that day, and I'd left the mints in the office, so there was nothing for dessert but the fortune cookie. I opened it, expecting a pearl of wisdom to put a cap on what had been a day to top many a day. "The most useless energy is trying to change what and who God so carefully created," it said—I wasn't much of a religious sort, nor did I think that was even phrased properly, but the quote was right. I needed to relax a bit and not make it my problem to change those around me, or that it was dumb that Jordan was going to reap the fruits of my labor. If he was a son of God, I was a son of God, and changing any of us—if God created us, he created everything—was worthless. Armed with this thought, I went to bed.

I woke up to a text from Jordan.

"Mr. Robinson called me last night to offer me the Hong Kong project. Said you recommended me highly. It's a dream come true. Thank you."

"You're the right person for the job. You've earned it. Happy Friday," I texted back out of habit.

"Ha ha. It's Saturday."

It was Saturday. Saturday at last, and it couldn't have come a day too soon. Was the solution accepting my place in the universe God had created? Was it ice cream with a friend who insisted that once I took my leave, I'd come visit her in California? Or was it something bigger than myself? And of course she was Californian: it explained everything about her.

It couldn't have been God: that was a moral too sudden to be believable. I wasn't sure what it could've been, then. Mr. Robinson was blowing smoke: my attitude was always fine. And I was just as rich as I was the previous evening, which was to say I was very rich, and suddenly my apartment didn't seem so well-furnished. It didn't matter at the end of the day. I'd suffered for an eternity, and for what, just to be told that my presentation was great but that Jordan, that freak, was gonna get it all? That was stupid.

Life was stupid, but that was maybe what Mr. Robinson had wanted me to learn. We worked, and for what, to buy ourselves our own coffins? That couldn't be the measure of man, how nice the wood was that entombed us for our damned eternity. I could believe that all the events of the previous Fridays were one long waking dream, with nothing but a butterfly to separate me from fantasy. I could believe that as readily as my ill-conceived notion that Mr. Robinson had held the keys to my prison, and that somewhere in the server rooms below Infinitech he had schemed to keep me there until I had learned my lesson.

I thought a silent prayer to whatever god above actually existed thanking them for it being Saturday, a day of rest, and waited for a response. Nothing, of course. I set my alarm for two more hours and went back to bed.