Tables for Two • McLennon

Starting Anxious

   It took him about 3 years of contemplation and deep pondering. He knew right from the beginning that it is no mockery; this is a matter of full seriousness and something one should not take ludicrously. Like a child; yes. It may sound completely absurd, but yeah.

Building a business is like bearing a child. Oh God, there we are again.

You have to nourish it, take care of it, and even give full attention to it very necessarily. From the planning, to cultivating, to applying. From sex, to bearing, to birth.

Jesus Christ.

And just like giving life to a nut that was fertilized, a restaurant should grow accordingly. But goddamnit! he was never pregnant, nor he impregnated anyone! or so he thought?

Well yes, partly.

That one time Dorothy scared him half to death on his regular night at the local pub, wailing in the entrance; mascara running down her cherub cheeks, flushed and wrecked. Saying she was delayed 2 months, accusing Paul he was the father.

Oh how much Paul wants to bawl his fucking eyes out and wish he didn't give that much of a money on a full go. Investments could sometimes be a bad idea.

He wasn't the father, nah.

But childbirth can either end up as a successful operation or an unfortunate one.

Just like this. See?

Flopping down on his bed with a loud 'thud', a rather exasperated sigh was emitted. The lights were low at this time of the day, it was almost evening and by the shade his windows could tell, it is about 5 in the afternoon. The sky was tainted burnt and orange, a scattered deep blue on the sides, the sun falls ever so slowly, dreamy even, looking like an uncooked egg yolk.

He was never home when this magnificent scenery happens, it is just one of the few times Paul had seen this; mostly because he was always at the pub, drinking and smoking and doing whatever bloody shite. And when he is at home for some unknown reasons, it is most likely pouring and the clouds were so thick and gloomy.

Paul is at his home today for a known reason. He has been around his flat for already 4 days straight, he never actually went out; which unsurprisingly surprises him. And plus, his fridge are out of beers and ready-to-heat food. So meaning, Paul hasn't been eating properly for days, sticks to whatever he has on his dirty shelves, lucky enough that he found a half opened biscuit can or a half empty pack of tea bags. His four dreadful days have passed just like that; in that routine. Paul never bothers to go for a walk on the street or a visit at store for that matter.

Paul is at his home for a known reason. He has been stressing too much with a lot of stuff.

One being his restaurant and,

Yeah, the restaurant.

Ya know, births aren't necessarily likely nor probable.

But he's stuck. Paul is in between.

Does he like the idea of a restaurant?

Yes.

Does he have what it takes to manage a restaurant?

That could be debatable.

With huff in the air and a defeated grunt, Paul tossed on his side, gently pressing his body on the mattress, feeling, kneading the warmth. A long exhale rang inside the room; Paul dies for a smoke. He needed it so much. He'll make a mental note of buying a couple of packs when he goes at the store. Beats him when would that be.

"Round round get around, I get around, yeah
(Get around round round I get around, ooh-ooh) I get around"

"Hello to you Paul, and to your beach boys ringtone,"
The unmistakeable sound of dripping sarcasm and the distinct manipulative voice that could only belong to someone,

"Fuck you Vaughan, what is it? What's the sudden ring?" If Paul would guess, Ivan is probably going to ask him to accompany him to this queer underground bars, it wouldn't be the first time mind you.

"I have a couple of blokes I know that may help you with your shite, ya kno' the shop you goin' ta open,"

So he's talking about his restaurant now, and by the sounds of it, he seems concerned- Paul snorting with the tought.

"Well, tell me more." Paul, rather intrigued, shot up from his lying position. Now on the edge of this bed, scuffing his obvious stubble. He might need to shave sooner than he thought as much as he hates it.

"I have this mate, ya kno', might suit your description of a perfect business partner," Paul swear to all the gays gods out there, if there are even; the mischievous sound of pure evil and the mental image of Ivan grinning rather bothersome at the end of the line,

Holy shit.

"The name's gon' be sent to you by email. He's hot." With the last tone of the line being dropped, the call was over.

To hell with Ivan and his man whores.

Paul is giddy.