Jack Morke wanted a whisky. He’d never particularly wanted a whisky before, but now he wanted one more than anything. Preferably in one of those round weighted tumblers with big ice cubes that rattled against the sides. Men drank whisky. Men with problems. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
It was 9:30pm and he was still in his office. His Mac was on. AutoCAD was running. There was a pen resting invitingly on a blank A3 sheet of paper, next to a folder full of blue prints, sketches, calculations and photos he’d taken that morning at the building site. It was a blank canvas. Very blank. Since getting back to the office at lunchtime, Jack had done no work whatsoever. He’d played three rounds of solitaire, dashed down fifteen flights of stairs for a cappuccino, taken the lift back up, Googled ‘flights to Tahiti’, accepted an invitation from a woman he’d gone to University with on LinkedIn, spent an undue amount of time reading said woman’s career history, Googled ‘architect jobs in New Zealand’, checked his Facebook messages, dashed back down fifteen flights of stairs for a flapjack, sat in the cafe with his tablet sorting out his Internet banking, taken the lift back up, locked the door and done some stretches, opened his folder and looked through the photos he’d taken of the building site earlier, Googled ‘rent an apartment in San Francisco’, gazed out of his window at the sunset, and finally bought five new books on his Kindle.
Now, he had nothing left to do but go home. He wanted a whiskey.
He turned again to the window. The bright lights of London glittered under the darkening blue sky. Jack wondered for a moment, like he often did, if she was out there somewhere. Living her life in one of those pinpricks of light. He turned back to his computer screen and closed each window, then he slid his tablet into his bag, turned off the desk lamp and left, unaware that this was the last time.