The Infinite Brunch and the Unwanted Companion
Arthur spun around, the green glow of the wristband a vibrant, alien pulse against his pale skin. His gaze snagged on a man, a whirlwind of garish Hawaiian print and improbable cheer, barreling off the newly docked hydrofoil. He was a man-mountain, shoulders like hams, a laugh that started somewhere deep in his belly and exploded outwards, spraying fragments of unknown spittle. His face, ruddy and perpetually flushed, stretched into an expansive grin, and his eyes, small and bright, locked onto Arthur with the unshakeable certainty of a heat-seeking missile.
“Barry! I knew it! Knew I recognized that posture! Still got that… what was it… that *dejected elegance* about you, eh? Ha! Remember that time old Jenkins got stuck in the shredder, and you just calmly kept indexing the quarterly reports?”
The man, Barty, apparently, was upon him before Arthur could even formulate a coherent thought, let alone a denial. A meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder, a blow that nearly sent him stumbling forward, the lingering scent of stale cigar smoke and something vaguely tropical assaulting his nostrils. Arthur flinched, instinctively trying to pull away, but Barty’s grip was surprisingly firm, proprietary even.
“Good Lord, Barry, you haven’t aged a day! Well, maybe a day. A really long, hard day. But still! Good to see you, old chum! What brings you to this… peculiar paradise?” Barty released his shoulder only to wave a hand dismissively at the shimmering resort, as if it were a mere backdrop to their grand reunion. His eyes, however, never left Arthur’s face, a disconcerting intensity behind the boisterous facade.
Arthur’s mind scrambled, a frantic hamster on a wheel. Barry? Dejected elegance? Jenkins and the shredder? He knew no Jenkins. He certainly had never indexed quarterly reports. He was Arthur Pumble. Pumble. A name that practically oozed quiet anonymity. He opened his mouth, a protest forming on his tongue, something about mistaken identity, a polite but firm clarification.
“I… I believe you have me confused with someone else,” Arthur managed, his voice thin, reedy, utterly lost in the tidal wave of Barty’s presence. He gestured vaguely at himself, as if his very appearance would disabuse Barty of this preposterous notion.
Barty threw his head back and roared with laughter, a sound like gravel tumbling down a hill. “Confused? Barry, my dear man, impossible! It’s me! Barty! From accounts! Well, *your* accounts, anyway. Remember that terrible Christmas party? The one where old Ms. Higgins tried to do the worm? Or was that the summer barbecue? Goodness, the years just blur, don’t they?” He winked conspiratorially, his grin widening, a chasm of misplaced familiarity.
Arthur felt a slow, cold dread seep into his bones, chilling him despite the warm, salty air. This wasn’t just a simple mistake. This was an active, aggressive misidentification. This man, this booming, oblivious man, was not going to be reasoned with. He was a force of nature, a hurricane of unwanted camaraderie. The solitude he’d envisioned, the quiet, the absolute, blissful nothingness, was already crumbling, dissolving into the cacophony of Barty’s reminiscences.
“No, really,” Arthur tried again, his voice now laced with a desperate edge. He glanced around, frantically searching for Evelyn, for a lifeline, for anyone who might intervene. But Evelyn was gone. The jetty, moments ago an eerie tableau of stillness, now buzzed with the disembarking passengers from the hydrofoil, all jostling and chattering, oblivious to Arthur’s unfolding nightmare.
Barty, oblivious to Arthur’s obvious distress, hooked an arm through his, a massive, unyielding limb. “Nonsense, Barry! Don’t be such a curmudgeon! Come on, the Infinite Brunch awaits! I hear they do a fantastic medieval feast on Tuesdays, and who knows what culinary delights today brings! We’ve got years to catch up on! All those late nights, the spreadsheets, the… the widget factory! Oh, the good old days, eh?”
Arthur felt himself being pulled, gently but inexorably, towards the resort’s grand, anachronistic entrance. The wristband on his arm pulsed an insistent, vibrant green, mocking his internal turmoil. The air, once so promisingly silent, was now filled with the cloying scent of Barty’s cologne, the booming echoes of his laughter, and the crushing weight of a non-existent past. His shoulders slumped. The goal of absolute, unadulterated peace, a mere whisper in his hopeful heart moments ago, was already dead, buried under an avalanche of Barty Finch’s mistaken friendship.