I was sitting at my desk when the phone rang. The caller was a nuisance, but important, so I listened. I grabbed the nearest Post-It notepad I could find and began scribbling away, trying to ignore Mr. Nuisance’s references to how big a jackass I am.

Midway through the conversation I spilled my coffee, knocking over my ceramic mug with my elbow. Damn it! Now I’m trying to take notes and clean my pants at the same time. The coffee stains on my new slacks probably won’t come out. I reach for some water to dampen a Kleenex tissue, but my shirt sleeve catches the edge of a Post-It note and it attaches itself to the cuff of my sleeve.

Then Sam walks in. She sees me: phone in one hand, spilled coffee all over my desk, wet pants, Kleenex in the other hand, Post-It note hanging from my shirt sleeve.

“We have to talk,” she says.

“Can’t this wait? I’m a little busy right now.” She’s the real jackass.

“No. It can’t wait. You hurt me last night and we need to talk about it.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”