5pm. Central Line. Saturday.
Three of them. Old friends, old rivals.
Loudly jibing (quietly desperate).
One fat, epicurean - privileged drawl; fleshy foot soft shod in leather loafers; knees spread to accommodate abundant belly.
Shanked by two: skinny, swarthy, bespectacled (less successful); pining over a birthday card for a mutual friend.
At pains to write the pithiest, wittiest, most heartfelt message; to strike that balance between careless genius and practiced craft.
The thin(nest) one agonises; pen poised over pristine page before it makes its indelible mark and - ALAS.
The words produced do not strike the right tone, after all.
Snatched away by fatty, who reads it aloud, with gleeful, undisguised scorn, before returning loudly to his reflections on the 'possessiveness of [his] director...'
Skinny no. 2 cracks a joke. ‘I'll just bang this out. It only took a year to write the last ten pages'.
Visibly sagging; the last reserves of self-loathing spent.