The alarm clock buzzed, a jarring intrusion into the quiet of the morning. Robi reached out a heavy hand and slapped the snooze button. Five more minutes. Five more minutes of oblivion before the day began. He knew the routine by heart. The same worn slippers by the side of the bed, the same faded bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
He finally dragged himself out of bed, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. Sarah's dark hair was spread across the pillow like spilled ink. From the next room, he could hear Luna's soft, even breathing.
He dressed in the same clothes he wore every day: dark trousers, a plain shirt, and a worn leather jacket. He didn't bother with breakfast. He grabbed his keys and headed out the door, the cool morning air a brief respite.
The walk to his store was short, just a few blocks down the street. He owned a small electronics shop, nothing fancy, but it paid the bills. He unlocked the door, the bell above jingling a familiar tune. Two employees, young guys named Mark and Alex, were already there, sorting through inventory.
"Morning, Robi," Mark mumbled, barely looking up from his work.
"Morning," Robi replied, his voice gruff. He spent two hours there delegating tasks and pretending to oversee operations. His actual contribution was minimal, but the pretense of work gave structure to his morning.
By ten o'clock, he was out the door and heading towards his real destination: Bob's Bar. The familiar smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hit him as he walked in. Bob, the burly bartender with a perpetual five o'clock shadow, greeted him with a nod and a freshly poured pint.
"The usual, Robi?" Bob asked, his voice a low rumble.
Robi nodded. He watched as Bob finished pouring the beer and placed it in front of him. Then, he took a long sip of the cold beer.
"Tournament starts today," Bob said, wiping down the bar with a practiced hand. "Billiards. You in?"
Robi shrugged, then took another sip. "Might as well," he mumbled.
Bob nodded, then poured Robi another beer, placing it in front of him. "This one's on the house," he said with a wink, a familiar gesture between them.
The rest of the day blurred into a haze of green felt, clacking balls, and the steady flow of beer. He chalked his cue, lined up his shots, and focused on the game. He wasn't a professional, but he knew his way around a pool table. He played game after game, some he won, most he lost. The other regulars, a motley crew of familiar faces, drifted in and out, their voices a low murmur in the background. The click of the balls, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation were constants throughout the day.
He played against old Mike, whose hands shook so badly he could barely hold his cue, yet somehow managed to sink the eight ball more often than not. He played against young Danny, who was all flash and no substance, always trying trick shots that never landed. He even played a few games against Bob himself, who, despite his size, had a surprisingly delicate touch.
By the end of the day, Robi found himself at the top of the leader board. It was Monday, and the tournament would continue for the rest of the week, culminating on Saturday.
As the afternoon wore on, the light outside began to fade. Robi glanced at the clock behind the bar. Almost five. Time to go.
It was 17:25. Nicole glanced at the clock on the wall, a sleek, minimalist design with no numbers, just simple lines marking the hours. Robi would be here soon. A small smile played on her lips. She'd been looking forward to this all day.
She smoothed down the crimson dress she was wearing. It flowed around her slender frame, the deep red a stark contrast to her pale blonde hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her blue eyes, bright and playful, sparkled with anticipation. She took a quick look in the mirror, adjusting a stray strand of hair. A touch of purple lipstick, and she was ready.
Her apartment reflected her personality: a blend of minimalism and personal touches. The walls were painted a soft, neutral gray, and the furniture was simple and functional. But scattered throughout the space were small collections of objects—a display of colorful glass bottles on a shelf, a collection of vintage postcards pinned to a corkboard, a framed photograph of her laughing with friends on a beach. Each object told a story, a memory of a life lived fully and without regret.
She moved to the kitchen counter, where a bottle of amber liquid—a smooth, aged whiskey—and two glasses were already set out. She picked up the bottle, turning it in her hand, admiring the way the light caught the liquid inside. She'd met Robi years ago at a party, a time of music and laughter. He was different now. But even now, with his routine and his quiet acceptance of his life, she found a certain comfort in his presence. A shared understanding, a silent agreement to simply be.
She heard the familiar sound of the building's front door opening and closing, followed by footsteps on the stairs. He was here.
Robi arrived at Nicole's apartment. The walk and the fresh air had managed to clear his head somewhat from the beer he had drunk. He reached the door and was about to knock when it opened.
Nicole stood there, beautiful as always, with a passionate smile. Her blonde hair fell loosely around her shoulders, catching the light from the lamp behind her. She wore a crimson dress that clung to her slender frame. She immediately hugged Robi, her perfume—a mix of vanilla and something spicy—filling his senses, and kissed him deeply, drawing him into her apartment.
The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small lamp in the corner and the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window. They reached the small, round table in the center of the room. On the table were two glasses filled with amber whiskey, the ice clinking softly as Nicole moved. Nicole picked up the glasses, handing one to Robi, and they drank. They looked at each other, the shared understanding passing between them, and began to kiss passionately, quickly removing their clothes.
Thirty minutes later, they were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, the bottle of whiskey resting on the low table in front of them. Nicole poured more whiskey into their glasses, the liquid sloshing gently against the sides. They drank.
"That was amazing," Nicole said, running a hand through her hair. "I love making love with you. At least, before you drink too much."
Robi smiled, leaning back against the sofa. "You were drinking with me, too," he said. "Maybe you were in a hurry for your own reasons."
Nicole smiled with an enigmatic expression on her face. She swirled the whiskey in her glass, the ice clinking softly. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean we can't drink more."
Nicole poured more whiskey into their glasses, and they continued drinking.
Sarah was looking at Luna. She had just managed to fall asleep. Her small chest rose and fell rhythmically, her soft hair spread across the pillow. She was beautiful and cute. Luna was five years old, and in all these years, Sarah could never get enough of looking at her. Luna was so much like Robi; she had his eyes and sharp facial features.
Sarah glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 10 p.m. Robi hadn't come home yet. Work must be keeping him late again, Sarah thought, a familiar tightness in her chest.
Sarah went to take a shower. The warm water cascaded over her skin, a brief moment of peace in the quiet house. After the shower, she got into bed, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to her warm skin. She picked up her book, but the words blurred before her eyes. She started to drift off.
A noise woke her. The front door opened, and Robi entered the house. She knew it was him by the heavy tread of his footsteps. She looked at the clock; it was 11:30 p.m.
Robi went straight to the bathroom to shower. After the shower, he lay down in bed, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled in. Sarah was watching him, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She didn't give any sign that she was awake. The faint smell of alcohol hung in the air. She turned her head slightly away, a small wrinkle forming between her brows.
She casually placed her hand on his arm, the soft fabric of his shirt rough against her skin. She hoped he would stir.
Nothing. Robi was already deeply asleep.
Sarah thought that he must be exhausted from work. Another time, she thought.
Sarah turned onto her other side and closed her eyes, falling back asleep.
Robi bolted upright in bed, the image of the green felt and the clack of billiard balls instantly filling his mind. The tournament. He'd almost forgotten. He threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed, grabbing the clean clothes Sarah had laid out for him: a fresh shirt and a pair of dark trousers. He pulled them on quickly, then grabbed his worn leather jacket from the back of the chair.
He could hear Sarah moving around in the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and the smell of coffee filling the apartment. "Robi, breakfast is ready!" she called.
"Not hungry," he mumbled, already halfway to the door. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the entrance.
Sarah appeared in the doorway, a plate of toast and eggs in her hand. "Just a bite," she pleaded. "Luna's been asking about you. She wants to go for a walk later."
Robi hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "Can't. Got a lot of work this week," he said, avoiding her gaze. "Probably won't be home early all week, actually."
He slipped out the door before she could reply, the cool morning air a sharp contrast to the warmth of the apartment. He hurried to his store, unlocked the door, and spent a few hours going through the motions. Mark and Alex were already there, as always.
By mid-morning, he couldn't stand it any longer. The pull of the bar, the promise of the game, was too strong. He told Mark and Alex he was stepping out for a bit and headed straight for Bob's.
Bob spotted him as soon as he walked in, a wide grin spreading across his face. He already had a beer poured and waiting. "Morning, champ!" Bob said, sliding the beer across the bar. "Heard we got some players from the Golden Cue down here today. Tournament's gonna be a real challenge."
Robi took a long pull from the beer, the familiar taste a welcome comfort. "Bring it on," he said, signaling for another. He picked up a cue from the rack, chalked the tip, and headed towards the pool table. The tournament was calling.