Friday, 4.00pm; the official start to the longest hour of Steve’s day. Time continues passing in the Euclidean sense. Yet it is at this moment, this precise point in his day that Steve becomes very painfully aware of time. Despite the best of efforts; he could not block out the constant ticking of the office clock. It reminds him exactly how soon his predicament would come to pass; which is far too slow for his liking.

This is as close as Steve would get to the Catholic experience: Purgatory The pen which had been writing steadily in his hand for the past few hours is now interrupted by erratic pauses to examine his wrist-watch. He bears a futile hope that he may gaze upon it the next moment to find that the hands had struck five and the hour would be over in an instant. That hope is repeated dashed against the steady ticking of the office clock.

Soon, he finds himself tapping on the keyboard; putting together words and numbers. His eyes are focused on the glowing monitor; looking through reports and statistics displayed in 32 bit colour. After saving the file, he indulges himself with another glance at his watch. 4.15 pm. The office clock continues ticking and Steve had half a mind to remove the battery.

As he leans back on the standardised, ergonomically approved chair; Steve lets out a sigh. Looking out of his cubicle, he catches sight of a diligent colleague working faithfully at his desk. The colleague looks up and they exchanged quick smiles before returning their attentions to work. For an instant, there was a mutual understanding. Steve could take some comfort from that fact. Yet he understood that there was an understanding did not necessarily mean empathy or sympathy. If one were to express empathy for every other hapless soul in the room; there would be no way of getting anything done period. Somebody had told him that an age ago, stating the obvious.

Steve looks up from his cubicle towards another smaller room within the department. Through the blinds he could make out the silhouette of a man talking on the phone from his desk. It had all the hall marks of an engrossing telephone conversation; the emotive movements, hand gestures and nods. Maybe it’s a discussion on an upcoming project or running by the details of the budget for the next financial year. Steve sat back down, satisfied. At least he knew that the manager would not be coming around anytime soon. The last thing he needs would be an overseer looming over him, observing his every moment, gauging the productivity of his subordinates. He reaches for a folder and begins sifting through papers; Steve decides to tie up loose ends rather than staring endlessly at his wrist-watch. Ultimately, he has no intention risking his employment and impression of worth to the company.

5.00 pm. The sounds of people rising from their seats, voices of the eager and the relieved could be heard throughout the office. It is the familiar, collective sigh of relief. Steve unzips his office bag and methodically slips in folders, papers in plastic sleeves and a compact disc. It is an occupational practice to ensure that the space would be put to good use whilst maintaining a fairly organised system of storage for work. There seems to be a beeline of humanity gradually forming at the exit with the three-piece collective eager to head back out into the world. As Steve moves towards the exit, time is no longer dripping through in seconds. It seems to flow; streaming through doorways, corridors, elevators, lobbies and eventual exits that merged with the greater ocean of humanity outside.

--

“God, this is the life!” he says.

Sunset, not a sound save for the rustle of palm tree leaves against the evening breeze and waves lapping the shore as two men reclining on deck chairs converse leisurely. The scenery is picturesque, the kind immortalised in postcards and visual memoirs of the exotic, the tropical and some might say; the fantastic. Tropical greens surrounding a wooden patio, gently swaying palm trees lining the golden beach ahead, the oceanic blue fading and glimmering against the escaping sunlight at daylight’s end. The sky and the clouds are saturated with natural hues of red, orange and purple. This is the magical hour, the stuff of dreams and two men were taking it all in.

“Yes Steve, indeed it is” says the other man.

--

The sunset marks the passage of time, yet there seems to be all the time in the world. Nothing could stir him beyond that beautiful complacency as he casually lights another cigarette.

Steve nearly chokes as he breathes in the air, thick with cigarette smoke and the reek of alcohol. He silently curses the lack of ventilation in the pub while wondering in bemusement how some people could leash themselves to the bar for hours on end and not suffocate from the constant, thick fumes and odours. It is a cultivated, acquired taste in a sense; people simply adjusted themselves to it and adapted as they have always done since the dawn of civilisation.

Looking around while making his way towards the bar, it seems that every seat and every possible space to hold a drink has been taken up. Steve glances briefly at his wrist-watch, 10.00pm. He mutters an inaudible curse at his inability to arrive earlier. He should have known better. Friday night: Any pub in the city would be fairly crowded at this time, if not full. He had been rushing through the city; tying up loose ends and getting errands done. There had also been an internal debate as to whether he should drop his bag off at home or take it with him. Steve just did not fancy the idea of being strapped to his work for the duration of a Friday night. The debate was resolved with a relatively quick detour back to his apartment. It provided him the opportunity to groom himself. Presentation! It’s all about presentation these days, something that a former employer had imparted with him. Everybody presented but nobody seemed to be receptive; save for the odd acquaintance or friend who makes the occasional remark. Regardless, the only concern he has now is a social appointment followed by the ritualistic consumption of liquor. The goal is to consume as much as possible without coming across afterwards as an utter incompetent; unable to hold his drink.

There is momentary relief as he finds an empty stool on the bar. Without hesitating for another moment, Steve promptly seats himself on it. He is well aware that some other cad would snatch it up just as enthusiastically. The bartender comes over to serve and Steve wastes no time with his order, “One bourbon please, straight on ice”, after giving it a moment of thought, he changes his mind, “make it a double”.

Nodding in acknowledgement, the bartender is well on his way to fulfilling Steve’s request. While waiting for his drink, he slipped his hand into his coat and retrieves a packet of cigarettes. No longer was he choked up or suffocating in the stagnant air. Like every other patron, Steve has grown accustomed to it but it is not exactly the epitome of comfort.

The only sort who feel at home in this kind of setting would be the old faces who turn up on a daily basis without fail. They are mostly men past their middle-age spending significant parts of their pension or whatever else they have on drinks and pokies. Besides bingo and the odd raffle night, there is little else for them to do. There seems to be nowhere else to go save for the smoky, every-familiar comforts of a bar that would gladly accept their money in exchange for drinks and the odd conversation with each other.

Lighting a cigarette pursed between his lips, he inhales deeply and exhales a cloud of blue-grey smoke. It keeps him calm amidst the stimulation; the constant sound, the jukebox music and activity. At the very least, it keeps him occupied until the arrival of his double bourbon. Taking a glance to his right, a middle-aged man seems to be contemplating his beer. He looks to his left and finds a man and a woman engaging in an animated conversation.

Steve finds himself yearning for conversation as well, something to keep himself from this alienating solace. He certainly has no intention of contemplating his double bourbon for too long. The bartender returns, slipping a coaster in front of him and placing the drink on it. Rummaging through his front pocket, Steve manages to retrieve a $20 bill to place in the waiting hand of the bartender. He has no intention of building up a tab anytime soon unlike some of the more frequent, loyal and credit-reliable customers.

After carefully extinguishing the burning embers of his former cigarette, he moves on to the next ritual of the night; partaking in the freshly served double bourbon on ice. The ice did little to cool the burning sensation of high proof bourbon. Steve takes a deep breath and tries to work through the alcoholic fumes. For a moment, he felt as if a sea of fire had been poured down his throat. The sheer warmth of it has him sitting upright and aware as The Living End begins to blare through the in-house speakers.

--

Everybody seems to be moving to a revamped rendition of “The Sun is Shining”. This is the light fantastic at its finest, illuminating all; nobody is excluded from its festive, ever-shifting glow.

“Bloody great ain’t it?” a voice shouts out to him over the pounding bass.

Even Steve is moving his head in time with the music. There is a wide grin on his face as he turns to acknowledge his friend. He drinks deeply from his Bacardi Limon in an attempt to cool down. The humidity has reached high levels and that is evident from the sweat on his forehead. He is more than glad to be dressed for the occasion; a pair of three-quarter length shorts and a pair of slippers along with the Hawaiian shirt.

“What’s this place called again?” asks Steve. His friend merely shrugs his shoulders.

“No idea, just follow the hottest babes and the loudest bass!” he shouts back.

Steve laughs genuinely and heartily. There is no reason to pull any punches or hold back here. Everybody seems to be letting loose altogether. In a span of half an hour he had spoken to no less than ten people; a myriad of friendly faces and eager gestures of acquaintance. Along with the music, the humidity, the flowing drink and the ever present camaraderie; Steve couldn’t have had it any better.

--

“You alright Steve?”

He looks up and finds Joshua, a long time friend and drinking companion smiling at him with a hint of concern. Steve finishes off his double bourbon and calls for another.

“You look like you’re a bit out of it” says Joshua. Steve laughs at the remark. The night had been a blur of conversation, something about accounting and loans interspersed with alcohol consumption. Steve glances down at his wristwatch, 11.30 pm. The bar is nothing short of full. They had already placed bouncers and guards at the door to control traffic and weed out any disturbances in order. The atmosphere is nearing its peak and soon it will be at the stage where there would be little to no room to breathe or let alone stand with a choice of drink in hand. Some band called Green Day is blaring from the jukebox; Steve had heard them the other day and deemed them to be somewhere along the lines of “atrocious” and “tone deaf”.

He feels a nudge against his elbow and looks back up to find Joshua signalling with his hand for Steve to come closer. Perhaps he has another one of his private revelations to share at the spur of the moment. Steve wondered what it is going to be this time.

“Take a good look, my six o’ clock,” he whispers into Steve’s ear while jerking a thumb towards the appropriate direction.

Putting down his drink, Steve stands up briefly from his stool and looks towards where Joshua is pointing. “The one in red Josh?” he asks. Joshua nods, sticking a thumb up in the universal gesture of approval.

Steve studies the lady sipping on a martini. Blonde, her features were sharp and distinguished. She is probably in her late twenties or, like Steve, in her early thirties. Her lips were thick; either seductive in a sense or probably just a bit too much lipstick. Judging from her built; she seems to be the kind of lady who takes pride in her body. Her form is slender with a reasonably fit muscular structure. She is probably an athlete or active sports enthusiast for all he knew. There is an air of certainty in the way she carried herself; the way she crosses her legs while sipping the martini. It seems a bit off that she did not have a man or a male acquaintance keeping her company.

“So how is she?” asks an eager Josh. Steve runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it out. He looks back at Josh with a cynical smirk, “Not bad at all, way out of my league that’s for sure,” he answers. Joshua laughs, patting Steve’s back with a hand in an encouraging manner. Steve didn’t like where this was going.

“Oh come on Stevie! You were always the ladies man,” Joshua says heartily.

Steve didn’t take offence from it but he thought that Joshua knew better. Of the thousands of attractive specimens in Steve’s age-group, none of them had paid any attention to him. In response, Steve presents Joshua with the infamous gesture of non-verbal obscenity; the one-fingered salute. This gesture of defiance is met with laughter from Joshua who slaps his back with a firm palm while ordering another round of drinks for the both of them. Steve derived no satisfaction from being proven correct in his self-assessment.

--

Her hair is smooth, lustrous and as jet black as the night itself. He finds himself fixated on her dark brown eyes. Her face, such a face! She has such delicate features and delectable charm which is mysterious and seductive in its own right. Steve could find no words to properly appraise the beauty before him. He finds himself moving with her on the dance floor with life whirling around them. She pays no heed to the fact that he is not as graceful as her as she moves her tanned and slender figure to the rhythm of another song.

Soon, he finds her willingly in his arms; dancing, moving, sharing the moments to the vibrations of the bass. It seemed like moments ago when he was on the bar, making conversation with his friend, sipping on his drink while observing from a distance. He merely watched leisurely until he felt her hand grab hold of his. In an instant, he became part of the atmosphere among the movements, the sounds and the life of the night. They had barely spoken, save for the whispers of sweetness into each others ears at exquisitely timed intervals, he didn’t have her name and neither did she have his but it didn’t matter. What was a name, save for words to call one by? There is no need for that anytime soon; the night is still pulsing with collective life and motion.

Maybe later, he muses to himself, maybe later.

--

Steve struggles with the set of keys while cursing the lack of lighting in the corridor. The fact that he is still under the effects of alcohol did little to help his situation. Finally, the door opens but not by his keys. He is greeted by another man in singlets and shorts; his housemate.

“Well fuck me, do you know what time it is?” asks the housemate. Putting the keys back into his pocket, Steve glances down at his wrist-watch. He concentrates hard enough to tell time. 2.30 am; not an unusual hour for Steve to be sauntering back to his apartment on a Friday night.

“So, what have you been up to?” Steve asks with a slight slur in his voice.

Side-stepping from the doorway, the housemate gives way to Steve as he makes his way into the apartment with a controlled stagger. He is not completely inebriated but tipsy enough for there to be some degree of impedance in his motor skills. Mentally, he is alert, alert enough to seat himself in front of his desktop computer to check his email.

The housemate answers, “Nothing much really, just don’t make too much of a noise. I’ve got a big piss-up to get ready for tomorrow.”

Steve nods in acknowledgement; most of his attention is now focused on the task at hand. He taps the Delete key to get rid of the useless spam mail plaguing his inbox on a daily basis. There are two messages of relevance which he retains; a memo from his manager regarding some issue next week and another from a co-worker. Steve has no intention in reading them at the present; he is far from ready to deal with any work-related issue that should arise at the unlikely pre-dawn hour.

Sifting through his inbox, he opens another e-mail dated from two months ago. Softly, he reads it aloud;

Dear Steve,

How have you been faring on the other side at the big city? Life has been good here, lots of sun, surf is good and work has been going great! I’ll be stationed around her for the next six months or so, at least until head office tells me otherwise. It’s been awesome, working hard and playing harder!

You should come over sometime Steve, I know you’ve been busy but do come down. I swear it’s going to be worth your while, even if it’s just for a week or so over the Christmas break. You would love it here; in fact, any of the guys back in the city would have the time of their lives. It’s shorts and t-shirts all year round, 12 months of summer and the most amazing beach I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Anyways, take care. I’ll be waiting for you.

Attached to the e-mail is a photo, that of a man standing between two young ladies. Steve recognises him as his friend, but his gaze is fixated on a lady standing to his left in the photograph. There she stands, with long, lustrous hair that almost seemed to glimmer in the glow of the sunlight with delicate, mysterious features and a pair of brown eyes that could captivate and hold the gaze of a man. Her figure is tan and slender. Steve could have sworn that she is smiling at him through the photograph.

Standing up, Steve realises that the alcohol seems to be wearing down judging from his ability to stand without tripping over himself or anything else. He sits down and leans back on the long couch, sighing to himself. It is a mere few hours to daylight and the metropolis would be beckoning him with the start of another day. Laying down and closing his eyes, he can almost hear the sound of waves lapping against grains of golden sand.