On [Not] Being Helpful.

At this moment, it is ten am. I sit, my back resting against the armrest. My legs extending in front of me, reaching across the seats of the dove gray second-hand West Elm pull-out couch that lives in the small guest bedroom of my apartment. I am wearing slippers.

In another universe, it is also ten am. I am in a basement, slouched over a height-adjustable desk, sitting in a very serviceable office chair, under mediocre florescent lighting, my back to a window that faces into a room with windows that face outside. I am wearing shoes.