The Pushover

Date: 11/23/2025

I don’t know what strange force summons us here, but here we are — standing on the rooftop of a skyscraper like two miscast extras in a psychological thriller. The city shrieks below us, a mosaic of headlights, horns, human impatience. Neon signs pulse like dying stars. The wind hits hard, sharp enough to yank me off my feet if I don’t plant myself firmly. And next to me is Sam — my old boss, the gentle pushover, the man who once apologised to the printer for jamming. The man everyone sobbed over when he left our office for the bright lights of London. Now he looks like London chewed him up, spat him out, and gently patted him on the head afterwards. “I just can’t do it anymore,” he says, voice quivering as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. “Oh, Sam,” I say — because what else can you say to a man who looks two inches away from yeeting himself off a 60-story building? He looks as though life has beaten him with a stick, then handed him the stick and asked him to hold onto it for safekeeping. The wind tugs at his coat, making him sway. My heartbeat stutters. I sling an arm around him, though it feels like hugging someone who’s halfway turned into fog. “It’s going to be okay,” I try. The words drop out clunky and unconvincing, like coins rejected from a vending machine. Sam inches forwards. “You don’t have to do this,” I warn. “Do what?” He frowns. “Jump.” He bursts into laughter, startled. “Jump? Oh — wait. No. I wasn’t going to jump? I just needed fresh air.” Fresh air. On the highest point of the city. In gale-force winds. Right. Relief washes through me like warm soup. “I’m thinking of jumping ships, though,” he continues. “Might work for the nuclear power plant.” “Nuclear,” I repeat. “Yes. When in doubt, go radioactive.” He grins, though his eyes remain haunted. “But first we’re having a send-off. Are you coming to the pub tonight?” He names a village I’m convinced doesn’t exist on any map. “I’ll think about it, ” I say, which is code for “absolutely not.” But the rooftop begins to shimmer. Colours stretch. The city blurs into a streak of lights and suddenly, I’m at the pub after all. “The Hairy Anus”, or something equally as offensive. It smells like a mixture of wet coats, fried onions, and old men who’ve been drinking there since 1972 — their patient wives still waiting for them to stumble home. My husband refused to join me (“I’ll support you spiritually”), so Mum came instead — always thrilled for an outing and half a shandy. We sit at the bar. Frostie (real name John, but his eyebrows freeze in winter and the name stuck) and Zoe are splayed over a newspaper, circling horse names like they’re selecting baby names under duress. “Pick one,” Zoe urges. “Only £2.” “Bargain!” Mum chirps. Mum would call a plague a bargain if it came with vouchers. Nothing calls to me until I see Monkey Nutz. I instantly think of my ginger, ball-free tomcat at home, curled on his recliner living his best neutered life. I’d rather be with him than here. Zoe suddenly pales. “You know they’ve stopped paying us at Royal Mail?” she whispers. My heart stops. “Stopped… paying?!” “Yeah. It’s voluntary now. And we have to work over 40 hours to qualify for… no pay.” Mum gasps so loudly the jukebox glitches. “Daylight robbery!” My Prosecco suddenly tastes like carbonated dread. “It was better when Sam ran the place,” I say. Everyone nods. “To Sam,” they toast. Our glasses clink. The world tilts. The pub dissolves— — popping like a Prosecco bubble — — and I’m standing outside a new-build townhouse. The sort of place estate agents describe as “cosy” while ignoring the existential dread it radiates. Phoebe bursts out the door, hair in a manic bun, smelling of incense collided with marijuana. “Come in!” Inside is chaos. Actual chaos. I’ve seen tidier natural disasters. The floor is a kaleidoscope of junk: dishes, clothes, a lone cereal bowl that appears to be fermenting something. The air smells like cat piss and bad decisions. “Come on, boys,” I tell my kids, immediately regretting every life choice that led us here. We wade through multiple disaster zones. In one room, a naked older woman sleeps while a baby screams in the corner. She rolls over and resumes snoring like an off-key trumpet. “Don’t mind her,” Phoebe says, cheerfully. Sure. Lovely. Nothing says “stable living environment” like a naked stranger and a neglected infant. We finally reach her room. Marginally cleaner, yes — but bizarrely, a toilet sits in the centre like a ceremonial throne. “I know, it doesn’t make sense,” she laughs, and promptly uses it — right there — before announcing she’s ready to go and leaving without flushing. “You didn’t flush!” I shout. She shrugs. “Meh.” The walls ripple. The stench morphs into cold air. The floor stiffens beneath my feet. And suddenly — I’m back on the skyscraper. Only this time, I’m the one standing at the edge. The wind claws at me, relentless, insistent. My toes curl over the brink. The city m stretches infinitely below — alive, loud, uncaring. My stomach lurches. Behind me, footsteps. “You don’t have to do this,” Sam says. His voice is gentle, steady. Strange, seeing him composed while I tremble like a loose fence panel in a storm. The wind pushes me. Testing me. Daring me. I lift one foot, letting it hang over open air. The void looms beneath me. Sam gasps. And then — I spin around, plant both feet firmly on the ground, and declare: “Yes. Yes, I do.” Sam’s face fills with panic — until I add: “I have to go home…” I jab a finger towards the sky, as if giving the universe a lecture. “…and flush whatever the hell that was.” The wind whips past like it’s laughing at me. Sam just stares, traumatised. Honestly? Fair.