Where the Road Bends

Chapter 4

A few pints in, the pub buzz began to take hold. William fidgeted in his seat, his gaze sweeping the room with a critical eye. "Honestly," he declared, a touch of exasperation lacing his voice, "not a single decent bird in this entire pub worth even a hello."

Julia, perched next to him, shot him a playful smile. "Now that's just rude, William. I hope you're implying I'm the only saving grace in this aesthetic wasteland?"

"You, darling," he drawled, leaning in with mock seriousness, "are a vision. Gorgeous. But alas, tragically spoken for by that... wanker over there." He gestured vaguely towards Danny, who was engrossed in conversation with the barkeep.

Julia snorted, the sound bubbling up from her chest. "Easy there, Romeo."

Danny, catching the tail end of their conversation, swiveled his head in their direction. "Talking about me?"

"Just discussing the dire lack of decent female company," William replied, a hint of a challenge flickering in his eyes.

"Well, you're barking up the wrong tree, mate," Danny chimed in, a wide grin splitting his face. "She's far too good for you."

"Oh, absolutely," Julia chimed in, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. "Far, far too good."

A mischievous glint lit up Danny's eyes, fueled by the comforting warmth of the pub and a healthy dose of liquid courage. He leaned across the table and planted a gentle kiss on Julia's lips.

The sight of it, the tenderness so unexpected in the dimly lit pub, sent a jolt through William. He forced a gagging sound, a touch too loud to be entirely convincing. "Ugh, alright, alright, spare me the mush! Honestly, you two are making me feel positively nauseous."

But the truth was, it wasn't the kiss that made him feel sick. It was the pang of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome. He downed the rest of his pint in one go, the bitter hops suddenly unpleasantly strong. He needed a distraction, and fast. A pretty face, a witty conversation, anything to drown out the unwelcome feeling blooming in his chest.

The pub, suddenly teeming with potential candidates, seemed to hold a new allure. He'd find someone, anyone, to prove to himself - and maybe even Julia - that he wasn't bothered by their little display. The night was young, and William, with a renewed determination (and a hint of desperation), was ready to mingle.

William scanned the pub with renewed zeal, his previous grumbling replaced by a determined glint. A mission, you could say. Operation: Distract-Myself-From-Unwelcome-Feelings.

His gaze landed on a woman sitting at a nearby table. Dark hair, bright lipstick, and a smile that could launch a thousand ships (or at least divert his attention for a few hours). He snagged Danny's eye with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. "See that vision in the red dress, mate? Think I might just have to break my dry spell tonight."

Danny, still basking in the afterglow of Julia's kiss, snorted. "Dry spell, William? You literally went out with a girl on Wednesday."

William ignored him, sauntering over with practiced charm. He learned the woman's name was Monica, a waitress by day and, according to her rather flamboyant self-introduction, a mime by night. (Where did he find these oddballs?) William, ever the charmer, managed to keep a straight face despite the image of a tipsy mime conjuring invisible balloons.

Curiosity, a far more potent force than William's usual aversion to the slightly odd, propelled him towards the woman. After all, one doesn't simply "bump" into a mime in a crowded pub every day. Besides, the allure of the unknown was a powerful aphrodisiac (or perhaps that was just the third pint talking). He settled into the seat opposite her, a silent question mark hovering over his head.
Now, William had encountered his fair share of peculiar professions - ferret wranglers, interpretive dancers specializing in the mating rituals of penguins - but a mime? This was uncharted territory. Did one wake up one morning, fueled by a bowl of Sugar Puffs and a childhood dream, and declare, "Today, I shall become a mime!" Was it an epiphany akin to Newton and the falling apple, or a more gradual realization, like the postman slowly piecing together his sock collection? William, bless his inquisitive soul, genuinely wanted to know.