Prediction: Tim Cook declares, "We made a boat load of cash, motherfuckers!" Then he drops the mic and vanishes from the room in a puff of smoke.
Wall Street, the perpetually disappointed father, clears his throat, smacks his lips, and snaps the newspaper with both hands to straighten out the page he's reading. Nary a glance upward at his son. A gray wisp snaking its way up to the ceiling from the ashen end of a cigarette dangling from the ceramic tray set beside him.
He mutters, "Should have been two boat loads."
Fists clenched, Tim just stares at his father. He gnaws anxiously on the inside of his cheek until he tastes the faint metallic tinge of blood on the side of his tongue. This time, he's going to say something. This time, he'll finally find a way to free his words from the lump lodged deep within his throat. The words bubble to the surface, but flutter out in a nervous stammer. It takes all his strength to choke back the sobs. His eyes burn with tears, as though they've never before tasted moisture. He turns and leaves the room.
Wall Street glances up as his son departs. The corner of his mouth curls upward as he finds himself enraptured in fleeting thought, before his attention turns back to the newspaper. He reaches for the cigarette and places it between his lips. His face glows orange as he draws in the gaseous bliss, and he wonders for a moment if maybe he should have congratulated the boy.
No. He needs to learn to be a man.