Johnson waited in a heated anticipation, with every cell in his body pulsing with electricity (including the mucus and membrane encasing his throat, giving him a rough, guttural, growl of an intonation; Saturday was a hell of a day to accumulate such a horrible catarrh), and as he slowly approached the Ikea entrance, he grasped his returns, and came to terms with the fact that he may not make it out alive.
In heavy anticipation will I wait in this pool of corporate catarrh, dripping with business casual, fried by deadening artificial light, for Mr. Funnyshoes to burst into my office on horseback and take me away to a nameless land of endless sunlight and beaches.
I counted the seconds, waiting for my horrible workday to end. My anticipation nearly unbearable, I did the only thing I could think to do under the circumstances. I coughed up a catarrh of gargantuan proportions, right into my co-worker’s face (the one who eats so loudly that I want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze a la Homer Simpson) and claimed that I was sick and had to go to bed. And so I went home, put on my pajamas and went to bed.