A Block of Broken Houses

Bad Company (Part Two)

Vincent stepped into the sunshine, warm and weightless on his upturned face, and he thought of how time appeared to slink along in slow, indiscernible chunks. Until, that was, one reflected on it; only then did one realise that all those slow years passed by in a blur. (Not once had it occurred to him that dwelling on this cold and irrefutable certainty only stole precious time from him.) On days like this—in moments like this—with the sun in his face and the light spring breeze playing with the clean cuffs of his grey dress pants, he was most aware of time's deceit. It was all so refreshing after spending two and a half gruelling hours slotted in a cramped and stale boardroom listening to complicated, equally stale numbers. He held onto the moment, knowing that in a day or two it would simply be that—a moment lost to the past.

He loosened the striped noose from around his neck, undid the top button of his dress shirt and breathed deeply. The crawling headache that had plagued him during the presentation was only now beginning to fade, and through experience he knew it would soon vanish entirely. Days like this were headache killers. He stole another deep breath. He felt good. It was Friday and he was free, and all thanks to Bryson.

The entire day had been devoted to reviewing numbers, crunching them, and then reviewing them again. And then Harry Bryson (a low-level twat on most days) had revealed some of his own numbers, complicated and stale in their own right but gloriously colourful because of what they had meant to Cunningham, the firm's Chief Financial Officer. It all came down to a much healthier bottom line, the prospect of which had caused Cunningham to give Bryson and the other two presenters—Vincent, included—paid leave for the remainder of the day. What this meant for him in the long run—a promotion or perhaps a bonus, or maybe simply a job-well-done handshake—meant very little. It was Friday and he was free and the sun was high and bright in the late morning: Thank you, Bryson, you twat. He adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag, the weight of his laptop and papers a distant and manageable burden.

Arlene would be awake and he should have gone home to her, surprised her. But a voice not quite his own was urging him to enjoy a little more of the day on his own. It was closing in on lunch (an early one, granted), and the sun felt nice on his skin, the faint breeze complimenting in its wake. He decided that he would find a newspaper and stop for a bite to eat.

Countless people littered the sidewalk. He filed behind three women walking shoulder to shoulder, and never noticed how the brunette on the left had glanced back at him, her eyes narrow and interested. He also missed her whispering to her two friends, all three of them glance back and then exchange playful laughter. He rarely noticed such things.

Three blocks north he grabbed a newspaper, and a block and a half later he noticed The Garden Café, its maze of bistro tables on the patio inviting. Once seated, he was served water, waived off the offer of a menu and gave his order. He unfolded the newspaper and settled in, and when the server brought his coffee and salad Vincent did not acknowledge him.

He found the articles depressing, the comics boring, the sports unimportant and juvenile, the want ads desperate. He flipped to the Local Living section and thought not for the first time that leaving the city would be a nice change. He enjoyed studying the various floor plans, found it soothing to stage his furniture within them. This inevitably led him to thoughts of Arlene, how she loved her apartment and had rarely given any serious consideration to leaving it. He wanted more, he thought—a house, a bit of land—and guessed that in time she would realise the same.

He glanced at his phone: quarter past twelve. He left the remainder of his second cup of coffee but finished the last bite of the glazed pastry he had ordered. He called for the check and tossed the folded newspaper to the empty side of the small table.