James crossed out the word ‘their’ with a red pen and dug a trench in the paper as he did so.
‘They’re, not their,’ his teeth gritted.
Only three papers in and he felt more coffee was needed. Coffee, a cricket bat and a ball. No … a rock. One he could pummel into powder, or at least bruise the wall with.
Cross. Cross.
‘They’re. There. Two. Too.’
The paper ripped in several places, making the red ink appear like blood seeping from a wound. He stabbed full stop after full stop before throwing the pen against the oak table and thumping his back against the chair.
Breathe. Breathe.
Now would be the time for some fresh air.
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