Firm disbeliever in your punch clock promise...

He walked quickly down Fulton Street, past the train stop and on past the deli. The wind felt warm as he chattered on his phone: "Spicy Tuna, Yellowtail...30 min? Cool."
Past the Elk's church-house monstrosity, the warm wind whipped.
She walked quickly towards him, suspecting, recognizing.
He saw her underneath the bill of his hat, eyes darting quickly, giving nothing, staring off, away, washed out in the shadows.
All the neglect, the history, the past revelry and emptiness reflected in her surprised glare: surprised for her friend, not quite angry, not yet.
And she passed.
And he went to wait on his food.
And it's already Monday.