They’re all gathered in his brand-new kitchen in his gleaming ranch house, sipping single malts. He’s showing off for his friends, telling ugly anecdotes. Right now it’s one about our coworker, Jaleesa. Jaleesa, who never should have been hired, who’s only there because of DEI insanity. He neglects to mention that he secured his own employment through the machinations of a well-placed uncle.

Upon concluding the mini-smear campaign, he surreptitiously tosses a small, grey object in his right hand. I crash through the plate glass immediately thereafter, feet connecting with his Armani-clad back. We both oomph upon landing, him prone on the custom tiles, me sideways atop his soft and whiskey-drenched body. I quickly rise and dust off small bright shards, little imposter diamonds, shaking my head in disgust.

I know how this will go. The condemnation will be swift and bitter, followed by a lawsuit or three. Why on earth, they will ask, narrow nostrils quivering, were you at his house lying on a sheet of glass? What did you think would happen? How stupid are you? Seriously, how stupid?

Well, it’s a free country, at least for some, for now. So let them say and file what they want, all of it white noise. I know the truth. Yes, I followed him home out of curiosity after he talked about his new digs ad nauseum during the team meeting. Yes, I positioned myself directly above the kitchen (there are climbing pads for absolutely everything these days) to ensure an unobstructed interior view. But trespasser? Come on. A see-through home is an attractive nuisance, luring children and adults alike. Peeping Thomasina? No way. I was lying directly above them the entire time, in plain sight. I can’t be blamed for their failure to look up and see what there was to be seen. Vandal? Please. This damage is not on me.

Remember, I watched him throw the stone.