Concrete Surf - Jow Bates

12:30 - The waves of business break for lunch

The noon tide began to swell at Starbucks, an unremitting sea of pastel shirts and vibrant, yet acceptable neckties flooded in. Jason sipped a small macchiato and blinked the Excel lines from his vision to survey the high-water mark of businessmen.  He listened to the off-shore winds of polite conversation and work-related banter, "I'm just like them." he thought. Working through lunch, treading water in the riptides of London's struggling economy, no amount of romanticising could keep him afloat for long in this climate. The waves of espresso and half-caf frappuccionos crashed over an undaunted coastline of lost souls. This was his life, his board now an ergonomics management keyboard, the smell of the sea lost between working lunches and dinner reservations.

Jason rubbed his eyes, how many more years? He was 40 in two months, what did he have to show for it? His BMW Camper traded in for a Hybrid, with 8 year warranty.
"Fucking 8 year warranty." He muttered to himself. The king tide was receding at Starbucks, the schools of businessmen swam back to their desks and the in-shore winds of 5 o'clock beckoned.
Jason opened his Hotmail;

We the wayward souls of sea,
Cast sail to wind and board to be,
As we catch Poseidon's breath,
Hold tight our boom on windward crest.

Send.