Idris looked at the stage. Fuck, he was tired. He had dark circles formed under his eyes, which stood out even more because they rested on his eye bags. His skin was pale. He had his name tag loosely sticking on his torso. It said ’Idris sucks’. He scrunched up the paper and chucked it away. The crowd was shocked. Idris leaned forward towards the microphone. In a soft voice he said “Hey, Idris. Fuck you.” The crowd cheered. What a bunch of fucking drama queens, Idris thought. Or rather, that’s what Nabeel thought. Yeah, you’re mother-fucking right. Nabeel is back.
--------------------------------------------
Music is playing. Loud music. The kind of music that pumps through speakers and shakes walls.
Nabeel can’t hear himself speak, so he doesn’t bother opening his mouth. He walks towards a modern looking building. He walks in. He has a small slip of paper. He hands it in to the receptionist. She smiles and says “ Thank you sir.” She looks at the slip and looks back up at Nabeel. “Thank you Mr. Terry Holden.” Nabeel takes his ear phones out. Lupe fiasco’s voice turns into a muffled noise.
He takes his Ipod out and scrolls through his playlist, aware that the receptionist is looking at him.
“Sorry miss?”
“Thank you Mr. Holden for using our services.”
He presses ‘clear playlist’.
“Oh, Yeah sure no problem” He says. He deletes a file called ‘Hip Hop’ and adds one called ‘Terry Rock Music’. “Please,” He looks up and smiles. “ Call me Terry.”
“Will do, Terry.”
“So which way should I go...? I didn’t catch your name?”
“No you didn’t. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” Nabeel scanned his brain for memories. “You remind me of my ex-wife.”
“I was never aware you were ever married, Terry.”
“But why would you be aware of anything if you don’t even know me?”
The woman went silent.
“Good question, Terry” Said a loud voice.
Nabeel turned around to see a tall man. The man was wearing a grey pin-striped suit. He had a long face, and dark blue eyes hidden by his thick framed glasses. He was wearing a fedora which looked a muddy shade of brown. He had a clean shaved face but thick grey eyebrows. His hair was black. His tie shared the colour tone of his hat, and his shirt was an official black.
The man stretched out his hand.
“Good day to you, Terry.” He looked at the woman. “You shouldn’t socialise with clients, Blondie. You’ll just spill beans and make the whole situation blonde.” The man looked at his hand, the one that was still waiting for a handshake. He turned to the woman, his hand still raised. “Go on, scram”
“I’d rather stay.”
“Why? Why’s it matter?”
“I said I want to stay.”
The man turned to Nabeel. “Nabeel, shake my hand. It’s protocol.”
Nabeel looked puzzled. “How do you know my name?”
