The Weekday One Hundred

Pitch black. And right on cue.

Choked down the last bite before sliding off the barstool. Overpriced sirloin masquerading as wagyu wasn’t worth savoring.

Bobbed and weaved through the packed house while agitated hipsters fumbled with their phones. Didn’t need help navigating the chaotic darkness. Years of indentured servitude made the restaurant layout second nature.

Pushed open the heavy glass door and slammed headfirst into the late-night humidity. Disappeared around the corner expecting a rendezvous with my partner-in-crime, my electricity sabotaging soulmate.

Found the old bossman instead.

A sweaty slob in black-and-white houndstooth, waving my three-figure bill.

“Forget something, John?”