‘I just need one more month,’ he begs as his sweaty palms stain my mahogany table. The kids need Christmas presents; his wife needs dialysis and blah, blah, blah. You hear it so much at this time of the year that it really means nothing anymore. Not that it ever did really –
‘But it’s Christmas! Surely you can…’ he pauses and looks up at me with glassy eyes like some beast to a master. I feel like balling up a five-euro note, throwing it and telling him to fetch. I could, I muse, but then why would I? Why have power if you don’t exercise it when the opportunity arises?
‘Can I get a short-term loan? Just a few hundredth to tide me over for the holidays.’ he pleads. They always think that sympathy is worth attempting to elicit.
‘At this bank we are not in the habit of continually topping up loans.’ I pause and let out a great sigh. ‘Although…’ I toy with him. I watch his eyes brighten before I crush his hope. ‘No it’s just not possible, I fear.’
‘Put yourself in my position –’ he begins as I drift off. Empathy? Is there anything more pathetic? If I were in his shoes I’d be off to shower in bleach before blowing my fucking face off.
‘You’ll just have to find another way, I’m afraid.’ I say as I get up to leave. He breaks down crying as I roll my eyes and turn towards the bathroom.
Crosby drones some shit about a white Christmas as I cut a couple of lines. Blow is the closest to snow that I want to see this Christmas.
He’s standing in the middle of the bank now – the plebe from earlier – with a knife to his throat. I hope he doesn’t cut it.
I mean we just finished the white marble floors.
Scribblings and Broken Glass 