The ant looks down from the rim of the biscuit plate, wondering if this is a good time to make the plunge. The biscuits are delicious, it knows, and replenished every day. The whole ant colony has been eating them for days. The queen even batted her eyes in the ant’s direction yesterday. It glances around to make sure the coast is clear and sees a Human in black and white staring down at it with searing intensity. Oops.

This is new. Not the Human, but his attention to the plate. On all previous days, the ant has only been aware of him as a black and white flurry in the background. The Human is usually flailing his arms about wildly and talking to something shiny in his hand as he comes in or goes out of the room. He rarely sits, and if he does, it is to look at another shiny thing on the table. Sometimes, the Human looks at some papers on the table. But he never, ever, looks at the biscuit plate. That’s new. And it is making the ant nervous. Is he going to grab at the biscuit, or worse, at the ant?

Nothing. How can I have nothing to do? the advocate wonders to himself. Look at this ant right here. Even a thing as small as that, not educated, not qualified as anything, has work to do. It has to pick up the crumbs of the biscuits and take them to its colony of ants. I don’t even have crumbs. Nobody calling on the phone, nobody emailing on the laptop, nobody bursting through the door. Doesn’t any senior need a briefing halfway across the city within the hour? Nor any associate have an ingenious question which would be easily answered if he only read the file? The world has moved on without me. I am irrelevant. Gosh, my body feels heavy. Am I unwell?

"Is he unwell?" 

The ant watches with curiosity as the Human makes a loud noise and falls back into his chair. He clutches at his hair and starts talking to himself. The ant can’t make out a word, of course. Ants don’t have ears. But the vibrations on the table are making it lose its balance on the rim of the biscuit plate.

"What am I going to do?! I’ve spent a decade, maybe more, trying to do this thing and it isn’t working. The corporate law firm folks have houses now, and kids, and vacations in Europe. I barely have enough to pay my rent at the end of the month. And what with corporate folks arguing their own cases, arguing folks are now having to negotiate documents to make a living. The whole world has gone topsy turvy. So, there is no chip on my shoulder for being an advocate, and no chip in my pocket either. Certainly none that will pay for a vacation in Europe, arrggh!"

With another cry, the advocate swings forward to the table again, bringing his face at level with the ant.

The ant feels sorry for the Human. He looks so old, grey. What happened to this guy? He was perfectly jolly being a busy-body on all those other days, but now that he has to rest, he is miserable? Don’t humans know they have to rest?

"Even ants rest," it wants to tell the Human, "several times a day, in fact. We just sort of loosen our muscles and hang our heads for a ‘short nap’. Why don’t you try it?"

"Maybe it is time for me to take a break, antie. Retire and move to the hills, huh? I could start my own café. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do. It might not pay as much, but at least I won’t be wasting my time waiting by the phone all day. That is not how a human being should live, right? I mean, we are at top of the food chain. We should feed the rabbits, watch the birds, you know? I don’t know about ant-watching, but hey! I don’t want to discriminate against you guys! You make phenomenal anthills, I could watch that! I like my dreams of retirement. It is just that, in them, there is always a cupboard full of cash somewhere in the house. So full that you have to put your body weight against it to shut it close. And there are a few photographs of me on the walls, smiling in an array of headgear and gowns. But you guys never retire, do you? You’re a hard-working antie, yes, you are! Just like me. Come, let me help you break this biscuit into crumbs that you can carry."

With that, the advocate reaches for the plate.

The ant has a near death experience at the sight of the Human’s humongous hand coming straight at it. It stumbles forward and falls splat on a biscuit. There it remains, unmoving, hoping that the advocate will take it for dead and pick some other, cleaner biscuit.

The advocate does no such thing. He holds up the biscuit with the ant on it, and starts to crumble its edges into the plate. "Actually, I’ve been told why this practice thingie is not working out for me. Somebody told me it is because I don’t know how to make networks, which made me wonder: why do I need to know how to connect wires in order to be a good lawyer? Some other body said I don’t give commissions, and I said to him, ‘commissions are statutory bodies constituted through a legal process, not something you ‘give’, you dolt’! To which, the dolt laughed and replied, ‘I mean, kickbacks, silly, kickbacks! Don’t you know?’. That got me furious. Of course I know what a kickback is. But how is that relevant? I don’t have a bike to kickback, and even if I did, it would have nothing to do with commissions!"

The advocate continues to crumble the biscuit, which is now getting smaller and smaller. The ant is mortified. It is a human thumb away from being crushed to death.

"Anyway", the advocate continues, "it is over. My practice is over. Nobody is reaching out to help me the way I am helping you. Nobody is saying, here, take these five cases and run along with them. The question is, what should I do now? Should I walk out of the cubicle and tell my associates I am going home because someone in the family is unwell and just disappear? Or should I tell them the truth: sorry folks, I know I’ve been telling you for years that I’ll be a big shot one day, but I’ve discovered that my talent lies in making coffee. May I should not say anything, and just leave? Everybody will figure it out eventually."

The last crumb remains, and on it, the ant. The advocate’s eyes meet the ant’s. The former, absent-minded and cloudy, looking for answers. The latter, staring at imminent death. The ant’s soul abandons its body and nervously hovers somewhere above its head. The pause is interminable. Or far too terminable.

The phone rings. It is a client. The advocate forgets about the biscuit crumb and drops it clumsily onto the plate. He jumps to his laptop while he answers the client’s questions. His hair organically falls back into place where it had been pulled, colour returns to his cheeks, and he begins to laugh like a happy thing, as if nothing ever happened.

The ant gives the advocate one final look and scampers away, promising itself never to return to this madhouse.