He carries the expensive golf umbrella,
Watches all of the soaking city denizens board the subway.
Why did he work so late?
It's Nine PM! Work finished hours ago;
The November chill kept him locked in the nice warm office.

No suit today, just a grey turtle-neck jumper,
Designer duffel coat, shiny Chelsea boots
And a scarf bought by someone he used to know.

The journey up from his subway station was a conquest of modern day society;
He simply ignores the riff-raff. He's much to good for them.
A smug grin manifests on his damp face.
Did they all go to Oxford University? Can they play the saxophone like he can?

The rain reaches a crescendo just as the migraine kicks in,
Still, he keeps playing the gilded instrument, every note forming in his head.
Voices whisper random fragments of his youth, lost opportunities that could have been seized.

"I like my office job. I love my mundane life."
He can't even believe his own words.
The front door swings open, not the rustic greeting that he had hoped for
Instead, a generic modern apartment.
Instant coffee, decaf please;
The aroma surrounds him, plunging him into a sea of thoughts,
Seawead around his feet, coral in his hair, he plunges with the sharks.

By this point, it's eleven o'clock.
That note was off-key, something inside him uttered.