The overhead fan continued to make its soft, repetitive, whump-whump-whump sound, as if hundreds of 1920s housewives had decided they were all going to beat out their rugs in the next office. Timed with every whump was a nearly indiscernable push of cold air against his skin, tousling stray hairs, rustling the top corners of the pages of the magazine he was reading at the time. The absolutely tripe and trivial magazine, full of trashy content for trashy people. Even the very paper stock it was printed on was trashy. One could feel it under their fingers. The slightly damp sticky feeling of cheap varnish on thin paper that barely did an adequate job at keeping the ink on the page.

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