The Computer is slow

The computer is slow. Infuriatingly, stupidly slow. He watches as the computer tries to open a third application and counts the seconds: ‘One, two, three…’
At fifteen, the window opens at last. ‘Fifteen seconds!’ He thinks, ‘Fifteen seconds is ridiculous.’ He stands up, paces from his desk to the sink in the shared office, then back to his desk again.

As he resumes his position, he tries to look unapproachable, so that the customers will avoid his desk. He leans his head forward, furrows his brow, and picks up a pen as if in the middle of a difficult calculation.
His plan fails. Two well-dressed overweight middle-aged women loaded with shopping bags sit down at his desk. They smile disarmingly and patiently wait for his attention.

He glances back at his supervisor’s door, then corrects his posture and his countenance: ‘Yes ladies how may I help you?’
‘We’d like to book a cruise please.’
‘Certainly,’ (all the while, clicking with his mouse, to open the software) ‘is there anywhere…’ (he tries to keep engaging with them while inwardly fuming at this wickedly slow computer) ‘…special you have in mind?’ (Why won’t this evil machine work? Why won’t it open?)

He fantasises about jumping to his feet, snatching the computer monitor from the desk, raising it above his head, and launching it across the room, smashing it upon contact with the wall opposite, shards of glass and electrical sparks dropping and slicing into the meaty backs of the simpering bovine idiots before him.

The idea is greatly appealing, but what then? Having destroyed this machine, what then? He would have to walk, embarrassed, out of the shop, and down the street in just his shirt sleeves, with people watching, open-mouthed. Suddenly, he realises that he has been staring at the customers all this time, his fists balled up, and his right eye twitching.
‘Please bear with me. This computer is very slow.’