He wrote the reply at 11 o’clock at night, and it was perfect.
Every line was true. The colleague had earned every word of it, had been careless, had shifted blame, and had made him look bad in front of people who mattered. So, he sat in the blue light of the screen and built his response sentence by sentence, and each one landed like a clean punch. He read it over twice and felt the deep, warm satisfaction of a man who is finally, articulately right. His cursor hovered over send.
In the version of this story where he is wise, he does the single hardest thing available to him at that moment. He moves the message to his drafts folder and closes the laptop. In the version where he is not, he sends it and spends the next six months paying for eleven seconds of righteousness, now preserved
This post was originally published on this site.
