The road was more crowded than usual—cars packed so tightly the whole highway felt utterly suffocated. The air, thick with the scent of exhaust and the heavy humidity of a late afternoon, pressed down on the vehicles and the asphalt alike. I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, a restless rhythm mirroring the internal countdown I was running. My patience, usually a sturdy resource, was thinning rapidly with every slow, frustrating meter.
My destination was the international airport, where I was scheduled to pick up my best friend, Marcus. He had been away for a week, a necessary trip that took him to Luxembourg to meet with a critical syndicate of European investors regarding his upcoming portfolio of projects. Marcus wasn't just a friend; he was an economic force. The guy owned a sprawling, multi-company empire that seemed to expand monthly—it encompassed high-tech manufacturing, a massive portfolio in lucrative real estate, and, most famously, a boutique gourmet chocolate brand he had cheekily named Marcus Wonka's. I gave him that name years ago as a joke, and to my eternal semi-embarrassment, he never lets me forget it, using it in every other investor pitch.
We were on the cusp of a significant professional milestone, planning a high-stakes, large-scale collaboration. The project involved developing a revolutionary new high-tech product, one we both believed had the power to reshape the market landscape. If this collaboration worked as projected, our initial analyses suggested it could spike the collective stock value of both our companies by a staggering seventy-five percent. Success would not just mean profit; it would give us an almost impenetrable, serious dominance in the industry for years to come.
My thoughts were running deep, tracing potential outcomes and calculating risk percentages, when the sharp, loud intrusion of my custom ringtone sliced through the car's silent, air-conditioned isolation. Marcus's name flashed on the screen—and right beside it, the stupid, suggestive eggplant emoji he had inexplicably forced me to leave attached to his contact profile.
I sighed, annoyed by the interruption and the impending lecture, and answered the call.
"𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓮, 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 38 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓼. 𝓐𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝔀?"
His voice, already sharp and furious, blasted through the speaker, raw with impatience and the lingering effects of a transatlantic flight. He sounded completely unrestrained.
I instinctively rolled my eyes, a gesture lost on him but necessary for my own calm.
"𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷, 𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓴. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬 𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓬𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓭𝓮𝓭. 𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵. 𝓘'𝓶 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓵𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂, 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮."
"𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴 𝓾𝓹, 𝓸𝓻 𝓘'𝓶 𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓫."
And with that final, unnecessary threat, he hung up without waiting for a reply.
I stared at the phone in my hand, the screen now dark. This guy, despite his immense professional success and sophistication, had absolutely zero manners when his notorious patience finally snapped.