Story Installment 2: The Seven Days of A Week.

INT. BLOOMBERG IS STILL ON THE TV. THE REPORTER IS NOW SHOVING THE MICROPHONE TO ONE OF THE PROTESTERS WHO ARE PARTICIPATING IN THE OCCUPY WALL STREET DEMONSTRATION.

“The “Occupy” demonstration is now taking over the world by a storm! There is simply no stop to it! It’s just inevitable. This is our revolution, our generation! We need to stop this tyranny and colonialization of the rich! The 99% is very proud of this movement and we are not compromising until the government does something!” The protester then promptly ends his statement by holding up a cardboard sign saying, “We are the 99%.”

“Absolutely delusional,” the man said in clear disdain. In well composure, he got up, straightened his shirt and walked to his mini wine cellar to pour himself a glass of wine. Watching in delight as the wine in his glass comes swirling like a violent tornado, he slowly took a sip from the glass. Voluptuous, just the way he liked it. He let the wine linger in his mouth a little longer, salvaging the taste, allowing the wine to work its magic with his taste buds, using the wine as an agent to fuel his wildest imagination. He enjoyed the moment very much – the moment before everything went down, the moment before everything became the obvious, obsolete and ultimately trash.

BUUZZZZZZ. HIS PHONE WHICH HE PLACED ON THE COFFEE TABLE LIT UP, DISPLAYING A TEXT MESSAGE.

The man walked towards the coffee table and picked up the phone. He then took a look at the screen and slips the phone carefully into his front pocket.

The woman had now emerged from the kitchen holding a plate of chinese take-outs. The couple, like two well-rehearsed actors on stage, had readily taken their positions within this household. They never cross and never improvise. They acted like two dancers who knew each other so well that they moved seamlessly as one. It was Monday, so they were having Chinese. And on Tuesday, it would be Thai; Wednesday, Japanese; Thursday, Italian; Friday, Pizza. Saturday and Sunday, they would visit each other’s parents for dinner.

To be honest, he liked routines. He was the type of person who never ventured out. He went to the same restaurants, ordered the same drinks and wore the same sort of outfit. His neighbours could probably spot him out of the crowd right away just because he always wore the same type of polo shirt and jeans with plain white nike sneakers when he’s out on a weekend. The only risk he took was at the stock market. He regarded the stock market as the only place where a risk was never truly a risk. With a bit of an analytical mind and a keen eye, one could usually make profit out of it. Perhaps that’s why the man had studied Finance in college. He enjoyed the hunt, the thrill and the excitement that speculation brought him, but he also took comfort in all those routines.

MID-DINNER. THE TWO ARE SITTING OPPOSITE TO EACH OTHER. NEITHER OF THEM ARE TALKING. TV IS STILL SHOWING SOME NEWS ABOUT THE DEBT CRISIS IN EUROPE.

BUUUUZZZ. The man can feel the buzz in his pocket but he has no intention of getting it.

The woman finally looks up and breaks the silence. “So, I have something to tell you…”

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