Steven rose from his bed, lifting his flat, black comforter and dressed in another grey suit. When Steven began making his bed, however, he noticed the slightly more exciting striped side of his comforter, and made sure it was facing the mattress.

Steven fed his cat, named Garfield, and drank a cup of coffee over the business section of the newspaper. Garfield knocked over the coffee before Steven was finished with it, and he was lightly swatted with the newspaper.

Steven left his apartment and boarded the bus, where he read the editorial section of the newspaper.

Steven entered the office, where he was one in a sea of cubicles, clicking away at his keyboard seemingly in rhythm with all the other people clicking at their keyboards.

“Say, Steven, you find yourself a lady yet?” Steven’s boss, Stephen, appeared outside of Steven’s cubicle, peering in, wearing a tie brighter than everybody else’s, and with slicked back orange hair. He always stopped by to pick on Steven, much to Steven’s dismay.

“No, sir,” Steven answered with a sigh. Stephen asked him this question every day.

Steven missed the bus home, so he was inclined to walk. On his way home, he was blocked by a group of men in suits darker than his carrying a coffin in front of a crowd of weeping people. Steven crossed the street, avoiding them.

That night, after Steven paid some bills, he made lamb chops and green beans for dinner. He ate with a TV tray while watching the news, and gave Garfield a piece of the meat.

Steven lay in bed that night going over the events of the day. Nothing new, except that the water bill was unusually high. He thought of how Garfield spilled the coffee this morning, how much he resented Stephen, and how he had to walk home around that coffin.

His thoughts jumped to work where everybody else was just like him, clicking away. He thought how much Stephen stood out compared to everybody else. Sure, Steven begrudged him, but Stephen was unique.

Steven thought more about the coffin and the crowd of crying people; somebody had died. Would anybody cry for him if he died? Maybe Garfield, but Steven didn’t think cats could cry.

Steven couldn’t sleep, which was unusual, because he always slept well. The thoughts tumbled around in his head some more.

Finally, Steven rose from bed and strode to his closet. On the very top shelf behind some old college textbooks, was a saxophone. His parents gifted it to him in the fourth grade; Steven took lessons throughout his schooling but slowed down in favor of a business degree.

Steven stood in his living room holding a battered, dusty saxophone. He was unsure how he got here, or why his fingers were moving over the keys and the instrument was making noise, but he didn’t object to it. Garfield looked around the corner of the living room and mewed.

It wasn’t long before somebody banged on Steven’s door because it was twelve thirty in the morning. Steven put away the saxaphone for now.

Steven still couldn’t sleep. He went to the hall closet, where some cans of blue paint lay from Steven planning to repaint the kitchen. He opened the paint cans, dipped the brush into the paint, and stood facing the red kitchen wall. Steven whipped the paintbrush through the air so it splattered on the wall. Steven did it again. Eventually, the whole kitchen was splattered with blue paint, and Steven decided that it was good.

Garfield entered the kitchen and mewed. Steven looked at him for a second, and then painted Garfield’s back blue, contrasting with his orange fur. Garfield mewed again.

When Steven went back to bed, he flipped the comforter over, and slept soundly.