Christmas is over so I can safely go back to being a little dark, right? I thought I’d share another prompt writing piece from earlier in the year (before this year is done).
The randomly selected prompt words were Tailor, Ear and Laces. As usual we had a 500 word limit. My effort was inspired by the phenomena of white collar boxing.
After Hours
She smiles at me with the sincerity of a used-car salesman. But I already caught her initial reaction, whether she realises it or not. As I welcome Ms Jones to the branch, offer some tea or coffee before we start her appointment, I can almost see the cogs turning. She’s thinking a tailored suit, John Lobb shoes, black eye and a cauliflower ear don’t fit. She’s old enough to know that appearances can be deceiving but, I suppose, young enough to care less.
Vanessa had called me to her office about it earlier. ‘What’s happened?’ she said, to which I replied, equally devoid of emotion, ‘nothing’. There was a terse, uncomfortable silence like a schoolyard victim the other side of the headmistress’s desk. I’d already used the “mugging” excuse – played that card too early, in retrospect. ‘Do not come in to work like this again,’ she said knowingly. ‘Or don’t come in period.’
As I reel off my script on mortgage options to Ms Jones, I secretly hope she’s wondering if I’m a vigilante hero in the city by night. Best I can hope for is possibly a rugby player. Why didn’t I think of that one in the office earlier? At worst she thinks I was on the losing side of a bar brawl. In any case, she’s really not thinking about variable rates at this point in time – nor am I.
I click off the last of my excel sheets at the day’s end, an image of Sarah and Jack beams back at me from the desktop; Jack is in his school uniform, winsome with a gap where two front teeth should be. I hastily click to shut down and the image dissipates.
I follow the herd into Shepherd’s Bush Station for the Central line. Instead of getting off at Notting Hill Gate and switching to the District line, today I stay on and alight at Bethnal Green making the four minute walk to York Hall. The troll behind the counter takes my name and points me to a door: ‘Go change and wait to be called.’
A pungent cloud of sweat and bleach hits me as I enter the changing room and drop my bag on the bench. Off comes my wedding ring, cufflinks and tie. On go my gumshield, hand-wraps and gloves. Others around me are wrapping their hands, loosening their shoulders: men who lead sedentary lives, who’d rather be here than hearing about their Jack or Sarah’s days or who perhaps crave something that annual David Lloyd membership can’t provide.
My name is eventually called and I shadow-box on my way to the ring, eyes never leaving my opponent. His fear is tangible – first-timer – disappointing. The bell cries and I shuffle forward as he steps back. I wonder whether he’d want to punch me more or less if he knew that I’m an estate agent. He’s a lawyer, ironically. If I rearrange his face, and I lose my job too, I’ll need a good one.
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