Poor pathetic thing

Aww.

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“God, I’m so tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair, hunching over his desk and resting his hands on the back of his head. White sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Rolex tightly fastened, he played the part of the businessman flawlessly. He even ordered cognac at the bar.
“C’mon, don’t be such an old lady. Drink up!” His ears stretched and his neck muscles tightened when he smiled like that. It was the tipsy, ‘I mostly know what’s going on but could you drive me home just in case, please?’ smile, so declining was probably the best way to go. Orange juice wasn’t so bad when the barman winked like an old friend, and Mr. Cognac wasn’t too heavy or giggling too much when being guided over to the car.
“Where’d you get such a funny hat? Can I have one, please?” Goading drunks on always ended up in mutual headaches, so he stayed safely locked under his seatbelt and sobered up by the time his front steps were in sight. Haze still clouded his pupils, but he had at least remembered what a cup of coffee was. Even if he hadn’t wanted one.
“Look, that’s… really nice of you, but… I’m, I’m really tired. Maybe another time?” Clambering for the reverse gear mixed with ‘His wife must be home…’ made for uneasy rest, but the smell of his hair gel on the headrest of the passenger seat kept the mitochondria going until Monday morning when black coffee colored the cubicles awake.
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