Toast

 

‘Come with me on Thursday.  I need someone with whom I can bear to spend the evening, in place of the blank faces that will inevitably reside with me otherwise.’

‘So you want me now?’

‘I’m tired of the mumbled inconsistencies about life’s pointlessness that I’ll have to endure again, that’s all.’

            ‘But surely all life is pointless, in the end?’ 

            ‘So say you’ll come.’

            ‘You’ll pick me up at eight?’

            ‘Okay I need to go, gotta be up early, but maybe we can meet up again at the weekend.’

            ‘I’m going to wait here for Tom, he’ll be finished soon.  Call me Friday yeah?’

 

I nodded, gathered up my coat and scarf from the back of the chair and weaved my way through the maze of tables towards the door.  I opened it carefully, with both hands, but still a brutal gust of icy wind and fresh, sharp grit whipped in and pricked my cheeks like a sewing machine held up, weapon-like, against my head.  I pulled my coat tight around me and trudged up the road, my feet still numb-wet from the walk earlier.  It wasn’t late so I made my way towards Covent Garden, past gaggles of already drunken sluts, tribes of guffawing men, solitary half-dead beggars. 

 

I bought an overpriced coffee from a greasy burger stall, slumped down on the frozen stone steps outside Barclays and began to run the lines over again in my head.  There was less than a week to go and I don’t know why I agreed to it.  Terrible idea and a terribly boring group of failing, faux moth-eaten thespians I’d have nothing to do with if only I wasn’t so easily persuaded.  By the time I got home I could hardly bear to even think about it.  What the hell was I doing?  I hated these people and all that they stood for but I didn’t have time to contemplate it any further because my toast popped up.

 

 

Toast

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