The investment councilor’s back office had a stock of liquor and thin walls. Every swear he spoke passed through, down the hall, filling the receptionist’s space. He didn’t cuss like a cranky (but sociable) grandpa type. His heart was full of hate. He had hate for anyone who told him different from what he believed. He had hate for anyone who imposed on his time. Histamine coursed through his blood, triggered by an irritable bowel. His receptionist had no love for him, as neither his third wife nor kids had. They were a wealthy family though the word, family, had not been spoken for years. The damage had been done.