You see, like most people, the man hates his job. To him it is and has always been a way to eat and nothing more. He derives no pleasure or passion, and the people are barely tolerable at best. On most days he is quite capable of ignoring all these things, capable of grinning and bearing it (although without the grinning.) But today, for some reason, was exceptionally difficult.
Nothing was different. He did not have a big meeting that day, or any trouble with any of his coworkers. It was no specific event that he dreaded, other than the act of working. He couldn't even call it work. He slowly watched the clock tick forward each day as he put in only the smallest bit of effort allowable to accomplish tasks he neither cared nor looked forward to. He did just enough to get by, and just enough was good enough when everyone felt like he did.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't go on pretending that this was how life was meant to be lived. He knew, in brief moments of lucidity, that something was off. He suspected, in the corners of his mind, that this was a dumb way to live. Going somewhere you don't give a shit about to do something you don't like to do, so you can not starve and pay for whatever poison you need to help it all go down smoothly. And this was one of those moments, and he couldn't get out of the car.
He watched as people walked (or ran) towards the buses. He watched as the buses pulled away, looking as if they themselves had a job they didn't like. He watched as the smoke from their exhaust blended into the atmosphere, pretending to be harmless. His bus was long gone, and he was still in the car. He felt the weight of it all on his shoulders, every pound. It crushed his spirit, and stabbed at his mind. But like always, he got out of his car and walked towards the buses.
"You're late" his boss told him. He explained to his boss that he had missed his bus, and his boss believed him and made no more of it. And then they got to work.