Jennifer Two

ONE.

I stare at the postmodern interior of the downtown bar & restaurant that I've found myself in with a few of my friends. They managed to take a slice of time out of their busy work and life schedules to arrange a long-due meet-up. It's true what they say about adulthood – leisure and social activity does become something of a scarce, precious jewel. It's hard for me to completely vouch for it, however, as I no longer have the busyness of a full-time job, a kid to look out for and a wife to make happy. I'm the odd one out, in that sense.

As I take a quick sip of the glass of Sauvignon Blanc I ordered, Richard brings the small talk around the table to me. "So, Bret. How's the photography going?" He asks. It may seem like an innocent plea for an update, but he and everyone else knows it's not going well, and now I'll have no choice but to tell them that. The silence that blankets everything, and my delayed response makes me cringe quite incredibly. "...It's a bit dry at the moment. I haven't booked clients in a while. I had a freelance model a few weeks ago who wanted some shots for her blog, but that was the most recent one." I sip sheepishly on my wine again to save me from saying anything else. Chantelle, a colleague from my former nine-to-five job a few years back, tries to diffuse the evident awkwardness that lingers in the air like a bad smell. "I mean, stuff like that happens all the time when you're self-employed, right? You have peaks and dips. It's gonna happen. I'm sure your peak will come around again soon." She smiles softly, almost with pity. I know it's not that bad, but I wish to be swallowed whole.

Chantelle is the only colleague I kept in touch with after I left my job. We don't see each other often, but she's sometimes available for the occasional catch-up and a drink. There was a spike of more frequent contact between us when Sofia left me, but it died down once I got used to my life having been turned upside down, and I slumped into the recluse I am, as of currently. Life has been upside down for a while now, and I just got used to walking on the ceiling and climbing on the floors.

The other acquaintances at the table are just people I picked up from the art industry, when I kick-started my photography and started networking on matters of clients and camera technology. We used to do group projects, working on landscape shots and travelling miles to find the perfect location to snap the perfect photo. This was a few years back, when I once felt like life wasn't perfect, it wasn't necessarily satisfactory, but I was doing something despite having lost everything. Now I'm back to square zero, and I have a bit of residue left of the life I used to live in the form of sporadic hangouts with old friends. Living pretty close to the centre of the city of Presley often gives me the opportunity to distract myself with the noise of the hustle-and-bustle of people going about their business, or of the hum or rumbling of car engines, with the occasional horns and sirens dotting the air. For the past year, all I've really done is waste my days scaling every inch of the city, taking trams from east to west, south to north, and familiarising myself with a place I'm forced to feel like home in. Nothing has felt like home for a while – not even me, in my own skin.

I'm only slightly tipsy once the dinner is over. Outside the restaurant, we courteously say goodbye to each other, throwing left and right cheek pecks and waving as we part ways. Chantelle walks in my direction; our cars are parked in the same area. I don't want to hear her say anything else, anything regarding my wellbeing, because I can sense it coming now that we're alone.

"I really hope you're doing well," she says, pacing alongside me with her heels click-clacking on the concrete. "I know it's been hard without your ex-wife around. I know business isn't doing well. Just don't hesitate to reach out for help, alright? I'm here as a friend. My arms are outstretched." I keep walking, anger slowly bubbling inside me, harder to contain mixed with my minor level of intoxication. I just ignore her, and quicken my stride slightly so the space in time between her click-clacks shortens to catch up with me. "Hold up, Bret..." she sighs.