My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

Due Diligence

Every time I go on a business trip, it’s always the same thing. I go in, shake everyone’s hand, say the bullshit I came to say, then try to duck out. That last part never works, though. The suits that I present to, who I could never relate to, always want to take me out to eat. I don’t know what it is about business types and their meals, but if you don’t break bread with them it’s an insult of some kind. Even if you’ve eaten with them before, you gotta eat with them again.

So this last time I was in Los Angeles, same old story. I do the presentation, and want to retreat to my hotel to watch porn on my laptop, but nooooo. It’s dinnertime. What’s weird about this one, though, is that not only do the three guys I was in the meeting room all day with come to the fancy restaurant (and they’re always fancy, by the way), so do six other people.

At first I was a little excited about this turn of events because a couple of the surprise guest were hot little numbers in tiny black dresses, but of course they got seated at the other end. I got wedged between a fat guy with slicked back hair that only wanted to talk about golf (fucking spare me), and a girl with long black hair that was apparently mute because other than ordering, she didn’t say a word.

So now’s the time where I perform. I call it my due diligence, where for two hours I turn on the charm and act interested in everything everyone has to say. Golf? I love it but don’t get out often enough, tell me about your last twelve games. Lawn care? I live in an apartment, but aspire to do tedious work all weekend someday just like you. Children? I hate them with a passion that could power the state of Ohio, but do go on and on about yours.

I even do my best to chat up the mute to my right. I ask her about her long hair, her family, the weather – but none of it works. At best she answers with a couple words then turns away. Fuck it, what do I care. I’m almost through this hell anyway. Dessert and coffee, great! Slurp it all down. Let’s get out of here.

Finally we’re outside the place, shaking hands and creeping our way towards cabs. At the end, it’s just me and the mute.

“Great meeting you,” I say to her as the cab that will get her the hell away from me pulls up.

“You don’t mean that,” she answers back flatly. “And everything you’ve said at the dinner tonight was false as well, except when you were talking about your favorite movie.”

I’m about to make some kind of back pedaling rebuttal, but then she continues. “Don’t worry about it, everyone at these things acts just like you. I’m not here to snitch you out or anything, I just come to take in all the masked misery that happens at these things. Free dinner and a show, you know? Anyway, you should quit your job and follow your dream of opening a bicycle shop. You’ll be less successful, but much happier.”

“How did you know about the bicycle shop?”

“I was in a car accident a while back that left me unable to walk for a year, and it gave me psychic powers. See ya!”

She got in her cab and drove away, leaving me stunned on the curb. How the hell was I supposed to know there was actually someone interesting sitting next to me?