One of those establishments that are small enough to fill/sell-out, and still maintain a unique ambiance. I have a snifter in one hand, and a book in the other.
Directly opposite is a mural of a nondescript man staring at me blankly. I’m drawn to the mural because I’m growing listless by the minute. I’ve been waiting on someone going on for 30 minutes.
Gradually, I find myself, drifting to the music, 1950's American Jazz crooned by a raspy melodious male voice. The stiff drink, the music and the book fail at stoking my spirits. I have barely ploughed through a chapter of the book, but I know I’m done.
My concentration is fragmented. Averse to dog-eared book pages, I sear my current page in my mind, and put the book down. I swivel my frame, and turn my attention to the wall high windows laden with rainwater trickling down lazily on the outside. The window beckons to me. In answer, I walk to it.
The window overlooks a construction site that is a hive of industry. Three floors up looking down, the men toiling away appear minuscule. A few wheelbarrows are trundled to and fro transporting an assortment of materials.
The men steering the wheelbarrows look beaten. Their spirits appear whipped either by the rain or the work.
They trudge across the construction site listlessly, almost moving on instinct. For protection against the rain that pours relentlessly, they have on what appears to be transparent raincoats.
The contract must be running behind time for the men to be subjected to toiling under such dreary weather. I’m interrupted from my observation by the trill of my phone. My prospect has arrived. I’m here to make a pitch.
To put my nose to the grindstone just like the construction site laborers, albeit with unmatched comfort.
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