The Mortgage Broker

The Shark next to me looked nervous. He kept sliding up and down the chair making the denticles of his skin emit the rough sound of sandpaper being dragged over the pavement. The hollow black eyes that were black fear in the water looked vacant and sad, his rows of jagged teeth were drawn into an uncomfortable smile as he took laboured breaths in the human way. He wasn’t the only one. The Cloud sitting across from me kept darkening to heavy grey and drizzling, leaving a growing wet patch below its seat. The Tree to its right reached guiltily over with its roots to soak up the Cloud’s leavings, with the intense shame that permeated everyone sitting in this shining office. The Dark Oak Bookshelf to the Cloud’s left was much less impressed, turning its back towards the Cloud out of fear that the moisture might sully its fine finish or the ample leather bound volumes that lined its shelves. Besides, there was a certain tension between the Bookshelf and the Tree.
The only door at the end of the long chair lined corridor opened and the Mortgage Broker stepped out, with his arm around a particularly pleased looking old lady. I say old because of her grey hair and the way she dressed but her face was flushed with youth. Her cheeks glowed as she repeatedly bowed her head, offering profuse thanks and supplication. He waved them off as unnecessary but his face rippled with pleasure at every gesture and his eyes drank in the attention of his audience with manic glee. When their attention weaned he sent the smooth faced old lady on her way with a gentle pat on her bottom that made her blush once more.
The Mortgage Broker was tall and dense. His broad shoulders filled an immaculately tailored brown pinstripe suit as if it had been poured over him. His shoes were so highly polished that the black leather shone as brightly as the silver and ebony buckle at the heel and his flawless white smile shone brighter still. Every tooth was perfectly symmetrical, square and white, just like the jaw that held it. His hair was glossy and unmoving. The lines made by the comb that pulled it back still prominent, straight and meticulously manicured and a single curl that sat on his forehead. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, black, leather notebook that was as shiny as his shoes.