This is some stuff I wrote last weekend. It starts with Friday night and finishes on Sunday afternoon. It's a semi-autobiographical look at contrast. So here's Friday. Sunday will follow tomorrow.
The Strategist
The week had been long, busy with bureaucracy and emotionally draining. Phone calls had been made and the due diligence had been done, ticked off, filed and left to gather its own dust.
Robert had finally escaped from the humdrum monotonous buzz of the daily grind. He’d done lunches, been for coffees, smiled at clients and braved the snarling jams at rush hour. He skipped tea, threw on his hat at its jauntiest angle and made his way pubwards.
The weekend beckoned with sleek, glossy hair, fake tan and miles of mascara. He was ready to charm and was already imagining that tinkling giggle and adoring smile.
He opened the door, doffing his hat and spun it on the bar as he ordered up a bottle of the finest red wine. He looked around and his smirk began to fade. Bald heads, beer bellies. The fruit machine clamoured and Pink Floyd were fifteen minutes into a solo on the jukebox. He drained his glass in disappointment but declined to leave. He knew this. He’d been here before. It was a man monsoon in the middle of a female famine. But he would get by. Either things would pick up soon or he’d steal someone’s girlfriend.
He withdrew from the pack, let them howl together and lick each other’s wounds. He became aloof; stood apart knowing this would engender curiosity. Let the rest take the scraps; the barked camaraderie.
And soon? His plan worked so he put his pen back in his pocket.
More tomorrow...
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