Every Friday he would be there. Nursing a pint of stout while hidden beneath the thicket of suited bankers welcoming in the weekend. He was never easy to spot. An unremarkable face in an unremarkable crowd. Some assumed he were one of them, but most looked straight through him. An act of entitled ignorance that he quietly appreciated. For he was not interested in their raucous conversation, he preferred to study the edges of a situation. The furtive glances, the fleeting hands coupling between a bar stool. For these were the treasured moments he thought, the moments buried beneath the bravado.