Who is this woman?
825 Words
Friday was usually a hectic day for Damien.
Damien has been sitting at his desk all day long, paperwork piling higher and higher. His butt started to hurt from sitting down for long, and his hand was stiff from writing and typing.
Looking at the paperwork still left, he wondered what he had been doing all this while.
The pile, a piece of mocking evidence that he has done nothing much. Well, what did he expect? He was the owner of nearly half the restaurants, boutiques, clubs and hotels in the state, so there would be lots of paperwork.
Of course, he could afford a personal assistant, but he was carefully avoiding being a victim to the stuff usually depicted in cliché movies.
Call it absurd, but he was not taking any chances.
Pulling his chair backwards, he stood up and stretched, relieving the tension in his muscles.
He glanced at his watch. It was 9:45 pm.
He packed his things and headed out of his office. The deafening silence of the building reminded him that it was way past working hours. He took the elevator to the last floor and stepped out of the building.
A light warm breeze brushed his cheek, and he took a deep breath of the night air, relishing the feel of it. His car was packed just across the road, opposite the building. He crossed over, not minding to look both ways. It was late. The chances that he would get hit by an oncoming vehicle was low. He got into his car. It was a Lamborghini Sian. After spending the last few hours at work alone, the last thing he wanted to do was go home and meet a whole new level of loneliness and silence, so he decided to branch at a club.
It was not a club he owned. Damien just was not in the mood for preferential treatment. He did not want to go to the strip club either. He went there only with the boys.
The closest nightclub to him was open. He got there in 20 minutes. Fortunately, there were not many cars, so he could find a safe place to park his car. He stepped out of his car.
The loud music blasting out from the club welcomed him. Damien walked up to the entrance, presented his I.D to the bouncer and stepped in.
The club flashed blue and red disco ball lights. The whole place reeked of a mixture of sweat and alcohol. Drunk young adults were all over the place, probably desperate to let out the stress caused by school or work.
It reminded him of his college days. Damien always came to the club on Friday night with his boys. It was their way of relieving the stress due to the school workload.
Right now, as he thought of it, he wished that they found a better way to do so. Their frequent clubbing got them in trouble a countless number of times.
It made a bad record for them. That was teenage life for you, immaturity and exorbitance. Now he and his friends were adults, so things had to change. They got rich, became busy, and had more responsibilities. Friday night became Saturday nights and in a strip club.
Not wanting to think of college life, he pushed the thoughts away.
He caught sight of some young adults making out at a corner. They seemed desperate at it. He laughed out. If someone does not stop them, that guy would swallow that girl and digest her.
Tuning out everything happening around him, he weaves through the crowd of sweaty clubbers, trying hard to avoid body contact. He got to the bar and took a seat.
A cheerful bartender greeted him. He was moving to the loud music and seemed to be having a good time. "Hello, pal."
"Hey man, having a good time, huh?" Damien replied, taking in the appearance of the man. He was black and huge with bulging muscles. The man had a tattoo on his neck and wore a gold chain necklace. He looked more like a bouncer than a bartender.
"Yes, I am. The music is good yo, had a couple of drinks, feeling high already. You look stressed, man." The man's voice was thick with the black American accent.
"Yeah, rough day at work."
"I feel you, bro. Just take some shots, and you will be as good as new. What would you like to have?"
"Cocktail, please." Damien replied.
"Oh good, on it."
As he waited for his drink, he turned to observe the clubbers. The dance floor seemed crowded, and he wondered how people could move their bodies in that kind of crowd. They were desperate clubbers indeed.
"Here you go." The bartender said, trying to get his attention.
He was about to turn around when his eyes caught sight of a lady at the far end of the dance floor.
- Writer
