He had been uncertain for a while now: faith wasn't carrying him through prayer anymore, he was talking to himself in a room. Long-term bonds weren't holding friendships together. Hugo leant forward creasing his pinstriped suit.
"How long do you think this one will go on for, if I
(more) was boss.." he said with a smile and thoughtless eyes. John felt like he was underwater.
"Yeah! That would be amazing" John responded with no awareness of the words dripping from his tongue. They both leant back into the leather chairs, the lights dimmed, and the piechart appeared on the screen before them. John could see a presentation he thought to be important, about profits, his profits, but he didn't know to be important.
His shirt and trousers caressed his skin as he moved in slow-motion. Nodding at the right time, humming when his colleagues did, all of them on autopilot. A nursery rhyme circled his thoughts, and the words of the presentation became meaningless. He could feel his mother running her fingers through his hair. His heart panged with nostalgia. He choked. Saliva was caught in his windpipe and John gasped for air.
"You Ok buddy?" Hugo whispered, which they both knew meant "Be quiet". John felt his windpipe close a little more. He spluttered and splattered trying to claw at oxygen. His cough echoed in the room and the presenter paused to ask if he was OK. John coughed again and his windpipe relaxed to re-open. He wanted to shut his eyes whilst someone ran their hand through his hair. (less)
