The Boss Rests
I’ve just closed my day. The decisions, the orders, the emails… all left behind. I pour myself my favorite drink, let the glass rest in my hand, and light a cigarette. The smoke rises slowly, as if it too obeys me.
I am the boss. I don’t need to prove it—it shows in my calm, in the way I look, in how silence bends when I decide to rest. My space, my rhythm, my power.
While the glass reflects the light and the laptop still carries the last trace of work, I allow myself to enjoy the moment. No rush, no permission. Only me, my dominance, and the pleasure of knowing everything is under control.
Because even power deserves its ritual.
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