Urban Jungle

The Obsessive Diary

Photo by Dušan veverkolog on Unsplash

Electric House, early afternoon, the low arched room that stretches with opulence was scantily clad; perfect young women with perfect young hair scraped back for the serious stuff of tapping importance into laptops. Not many, just enough to fill the hush. A central table and sofas adorned with mothers and babies, a pram blocked the way between tables. A little girl knocked over crayons and demanded she take the menu home. Her mother patiently explained the restaurant would be cross. Her mother had perfect hair too. Blonde and rich. Thick to the shoulders. As they left I realised the other woman wasn’t a mother to these toddlers and infants at all but the nanny, wheeling them out while the mother wondered how to pay, holding up the bill and walking away. I have judgements. I probably have no right to these.

They left room for a clear view of two men in the uniform of ageing tech bro rock star pretender probably worked in the music business or cars. Or art. Or something that took them to Ibiza. Shaved heads that fuzzed. Five o’clock shadows that did the same. Suits. Heavy weight glasses lifted to the brow. Voices that belonged east of here, that had watched too much Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, that wore flat caps on the weekend when shooting movies or ducks. One was larger than the other. One was leaning forward in his seat. I heard something about apologise; “you should apologise when… “ and the smaller one shuffle and beg and do that crawling that dogs do when they bare their teeth. He wanted something. It stopped him from beating his chest.

Their conversation staggered on, Big Man ever more comfortable in his leaning back, forty-five degree angle to the table that had pots of tea, glasses of water. He managed to put his ankle up on his knee, his knee jutting, white socks, loafers, message sent, I’m done. Little Man stood up. It was almost over. If only he hadn’t sat down again. He stood up and chattered in the relief flooding I am almost out of here way that made him affable again, easy. He made the other guy laugh, ears prick at some titbit of information and before he knew it his hand was on the back of the chair, pulling it out and he was down again, legs spread, elbows resting, the enthusiasm of launching into a story that this other guy might actually enjoy made him forget the past hour of humiliating discomfort, the power play, the please for the love of god be my friend. Big Guy began scratching his nose. Then his earlobe. Then the back of his head rubbed with big hands that said what the fuck is this guy thinking. Can’t he take a message? and if there had been a hint of reconciliation and yeah maybe I’ll let you back in the gang, it was gone. Little guy had overplayed his moment. The anecdote begun so happily fell among white china tea pots and glasses half filled. The second leaving was awkward. Little man tucked in his chair like he was at school, or leaving the dinner table, dismissed.

His departure down the long opulent archway of Electric House, paintings filling the walls, sofas of perfect young teatime business and a bar that will serve cocktails tonight was hurried and quiet and don’t look back. Put your glasses on. Remember tomorrow is another day. Big Man didn’t watch him go like I did. Big Man heaved a sigh of relief and buried himself in his phone.