Chubcheckers

The lounge, thick with the smoky haze of unfiltered cigarettes and the cloying sweetness of cheap bourbon, clung to Frank Mercer like a damp shroud. Time, as it often did these days, had slipped its leash. He was a balding, heavyset man, his face flushed, his once-crisp suit now rumpled and stained. His tie, loosened to an uncomfortable degree, hung askew, a testament to his increasing detachment. The air, a miasma of stale beer and the lingering scent of spilled spirits, pressed in on him, a tangible weight. The bartender, Vince, a lanky fellow with slicked-back hair and a weary gaze, had long since ceased any attempt at conversation. His eyes, fixed on the flickering neon sign above the bar, conveyed a clear message: Drink up and move on. The murmur of other patrons, the clinking of glasses, the distant rumble of the city—it all blended into a dull, monotonous hum, a soundtrack to Frank’s slow, alcohol-fueled descent. Then, he noticed the man. He sat at the far end of the bar, a quie...

As the day wound down and the office emptied, Leonard sat at his desk, pretending to go over the same report for the third time. His hands were clammy, his collar too tight. The events of the past 24 hours hung over him like a storm cloud, pressing down on his shoulders. He told himself he should leave. Go home. Act as if nothing had changed. But he didn’t. "Staying late?" The voice was smooth, knowing. Leonard looked up to find Feldman standing by his desk, coffee cup in hand despite the hour. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something Leonard recognized now—something he had seen in the mirror that morning. Feldman glanced around the office, confirming they were alone, then leaned in just enough for Leonard to catch the scent of his cologne—warm, spicy, familiar. "I saw the way he looked at you today," Feldman murmured. "The way you looked at him." Leonard tensed. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Feldman chuckled, settin...

The house was dark when Leonard Hargrove pulled into the driveway, the sagging roofline silhouetted against the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. He sighed, rubbing the stiffness in his neck. Another late night. Another round of pushing papers long after the office emptied. He wasn’t even sure why he stayed—habit, maybe. Fear of coming home, perhaps. He climbed out of his rust-flecked sedan, his belly shifting uncomfortably under his too-tight dress shirt as he adjusted his belt. The porch light flickered, a bulb on its last legs. He made a mental note to change it but knew he probably wouldn’t. Inside, he expected silence—his wife asleep or pretending to be. Instead, low, rhythmic sounds drifted from upstairs. Leonard froze. He recognized those sounds immediately. His hands grew clammy as he quietly closed the door behind him. The floor creaked under his cautious steps toward the staircase, his heart hammering. His mind scrambled for explanations—anything except the truth he already k...