Sometimes when we’re eating breakfast the people in suits come to ruin our apartment. It always starts with the pounding on the door, usually two booming hits before the lock gives way or the hinges come loose in a flurry of splinters. Then they file in, with purpose but without excessive haste, their faces devoid of expression, and set about their work. As I raise a spoonful of cereal to my mouth the table is flipped over, the bowl and its contents showering the recently re-upholstered sofa. Karen reaches for the paper but before it’s in her hand it’s torn to shreds, the slices of images and words joining the feathers and flour hovering in the air. We finish our breakfast as best we can while the carnage continues. As always, the bed being set ablaze signals the end of the destruction, and without a word or even a glance in our direction, the people in suits file out of the apartment and shut the door. Karen and I look at each other. One of us laughs, and then we both laugh, and with a kiss we start to put things back together again.

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