“To be working on a Sunday,” He chuckles in false ease, voice crisp enough to surely be unmuddled over even the poorest of connections. “How admirable of you.”
Phone calls on the weekends, on holidays, and during late hours of the night are standard fare with this detestable man. He knows the disregard he has for all of his underlings and exactly how each and every one of them would scramble to attention at his very beck and call; a quiet boiling in his chest threatening to overflow in knowledge that he had to be one of them. Sacrifices are necessary for anything to be fulfilled and patience is a game forcefully etched into his veins since the moment of his conception, yet his hand still crushes his cell in knuckle white fury against his ear. Yet he can’t hide the disdain flashing over his crimson hues when his name blinks on his screen, not when he’s in the privacy of his home. His professional life dictates full names and associations to be logged in his directory but, just once, he considers a bite of petty victory before moving on. Childish actions he cannot afford and ones he likes to believe he is above.
On a Sunday, his shoulders are free from stiff fabric and his neck is free from the choking hold of a necktie but, his throat teeters on the edge of closing when they lay out their plans. Another politician to throw from their shaky throne, another company employee to hammer away at the foundation of another piece of his game; their talks never step beyond the reach of business and he prefers that. Nothing personal connects him with this man, that is the impression he wants to impart on him and leave with him until he is certain of his ruin, so he breathes his last breath with his name hanging over him like a curse.
It surprises him when he asks him if he is feeling ill, a breath after he coughs to clear his still tightening throat. A professional courtesy surely but, enough to cause ripples on the calm surface of his facade for the briefest. Being at home gives him a false sense of security, he realizes between honeyed words of reassurance, laughter hollow when he massages his throat. Nothing else deviates after but, a strange mood settles over the remainder of conversation and he tears his crisp clothes from hangers immediately to cover the feeling when he can. The rest of this Sunday is his but, the air in his apartment is stifling and a free day is just an easy day to sully hands for his justice again.
He decides to take care of the politician sooner than later. Maybe it will free him from unrest, the target an unfortunate scapegoat for this feeling running through his body. Meticulous planning results in his schedule is laid out for the next few days, even if location ultimately has no meaning for his disposal. His publicity and fame makes no extravagant location outside of his scope, a restaurant for false praise even more accessible. His family is with him, gathered in a warm circle around his scapegoat and punctuated with food. Location and event never deters him but, today he stops to read it for a reason unknown to his mind but known to his heart.
Happy Father’s Day, he reads the happy words on her lips to the older man in tow, necktie box in hand to press into his grateful ones. The gentle crinkle of his eyes sickens him.
Ah. So that’s what it is, he thinks to himself when he rises to slip away. Reality melts away before his eyes and he trades in his crisp suit for an outfit he prefers.
What a cruel irony.
