I overheard they were ordering cupcakes for tomorrow. I knew what was up. A toast was in the works, on my last day, of what’s likely going to be my last job. I have given my share of toasts of this kind over the years: It’s a funny comment, then a meaningful remembrance of some incident of kindness, and then a really big, over-the-top thank you. What are we going to do without you? That heartfelt question can’t help itself from being asked. It’s on the tip of everyone’s tongues. If no one asks, it’s still hanging in the air, captured in the collective gleam of the faces of those gathered, all standing there in uncomfortable shoes, holding plastic glasses. But we all know the answer. It can break your heart.

These past few months I’ve been taking things, one at a time. Not to keep. I just chuck the item in the first garbage can I see, or leave it somewhere, some place where it might carry on into a new life. I started small, with a stapler from my desk drawer. I placed that on the little makeshift seat in a dressing room. I was there trying on clothes because I thought I’d get a new shirt for my last day, to mark the occasion. But it’s also possible I was just having a hard time being clever with the stapler abandonment, and the only thing I could think of was to leave it in a dressing room. I did laugh while I was doing it, but now, I don’t really get why I thought it was so funny. I also didn’t bother buying a new shirt for my last day in the office. While I truly believed in the forthright irony of that idea, I knew I’d have to verbally call it out and explain it if I wanted anyone else to get in on the joke, and at this point it’s hard enough just to ask, How’s your day going?

 I left one giant file folder on a subway seat. Got off the train and let it go further into the darkened recesses of the city. I took a clock off of the wall, and placed that on a tucked away tree in the park. I used a thumbtack to situate it on the tree. Before I left, I ripped off the hands of the clock, and threw them into the lake. I also snatched one of those forgettable recognition slash award plaques off the wall in the hallway and just left it on the elevator. People were going to see it on the floor and on the one hand wonder why someone would just leave an award there—perpetually stuck in a rise and fall transitory state—but also, not be willing to derail wherever it is they’re going in order to figure out the rightful owner of the memorialized tribute. It’s not like it’s a wallet or a phone or something along those lines that’s truly vital to, well, I was going to say, existence… but of course it depends on what kind of existence you are currently tracked into.

And okay, I admit it, I did take the framed picture of my boss where he’s wearing a polo shirt with the company’s old logo and celebrating catching a fish with a bunch of work colleagues—I definitely worked with some of those people but it was so long ago I can’t recall any of their names. After grabbing a quick burger and fries and then clearing my fast food tray of condiment soiled wrappers, I propped up the photo on the top of the garbage can, letting it teeter right on the edge of the hole. Clearly it was time to stop, and I did. I’m reliable in that way.

After leaving the office on my second to last day, I decided to rework my schedule. It hit me just as I was skipping my subway stop, that I would keep going, to that cupcake shop that I’ve always believed to have the best cupcakes, ever. I could taste them now, and would truly do so soon enough. I decided right there and then that I would not be making it into the office tomorrow. What are they going to do? Fire me? So that means there will be no last day. Tomorrow will be just that: tomorrow.

Jeffrey Yamaguchi (jeffreyyamaguchi.com) is the author of 52 Projects and Anya Chases Down the End, and his work has been featured in publications such as Atticus Review, Kissing Dynamite, Nightingale & Sparrow, X-R-A-Y Lit Mag, Vamp Cat Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Feral, and The Storms.