The guy in the office who spends all Monday telling everyone about his golf game
Brent, with the self-assured smile that seemed permanently etched on his face, pushed open the heavy doors and strode into the vast expanse that was once teeming with activity. Now, it resembled more of a ghost town—empty desks, silent computers, and unoccupied chairs all stood as reminders of a time before remote work policies took over.
Brent’s footsteps echoed through the eerie silence as he made his way to his desk. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the days when the room buzzed with life. Yet, despite the changes, one thing remained constant: his insatiable desire to share tales from his weekend golf game.
“Ah, Mondays,” he mused aloud, running a hand through his thick hair. “Time to regale the masses with golf.” In the past, Brent would hold court, recounting his exploits on the greens, his bravado only matched by his penchant for exaggeration. The IT guys hunched over tangled wires, interns frantically stirring coffee—all of them were subjected to stories of miraculous putts and harrowing sand traps. Their eyes, glazed or darting around, silently pleaded for a reprieve from Brent’s enthusiastic monologues.
But today, the office held no captive audience save for two: Mr. Hemsworth, the enigmatic company president who always seemed to have a trick up his sleeve, and Bruno, the president’s aging Golden Retriever. As Brent settled into his chair, he weighed his options.
“Good morning, sir!” Brent called out. Mr. Hemsworth looked up from his desk, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, Brent,” he replied, adjusting his cufflinks with a flourish. “I trust your weekend was well spent on the green?”
“Indeed it was, sir!” Brent beamed, seizing the opportunity. “Hole 3 was particularly challenging, but I managed to…”
As Brent launched into his story, he noticed Bruno padding towards him, clearly intrigued by the animated conversation. For a moment, the dog’s warm, brown eyes seemed to communicate an unspoken understanding: they were both here, in this strange new world of empty offices and echoing hallways. And so, Brent found himself not only sharing his golf exploits with Mr. Hemsworth, but also forming a bond with Golden Retriever who listened patiently, wagging his tail in agreement as tales of birdies, bogeys, and bunker shots filled the room.
Brent leaned against the doorframe, his gaze following Bruno, who meandered through the maze of desks like a ship sailing through an ocean of empty chairs. The Golden Retriever’s nose diligently brushed the carpet, his steps unhurried, his breaths deep and rhythmic. Occasionally, he would pause to look out the window, as if contemplating the emptiness outside mirrored the emptiness within.
“Here goes nothing,” Brent muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. He straightened his tie and strode towards the old dog with purpose, his leather shoes tapping softly on the tiled floor.
“Bruno! Buddy!” Brent called out, crouching down beside the dog with a grin plastered across his face. “Let me tell you about my golf weekend. Hole 3, right? It’s a par 5 and the wind was just insane…”
Bruno’s ears perked up at the sound of Brent’s voice, his gentle eyes meeting Brent’s animated ones. There was a quiet wisdom in those eyes that seemed to say, ‘Go on, stranger, I’m listening.’
“Man, the grass was practically horizontal,” Brent continued, his hands gesturing wildly as he described the scene. “I mean, I could barely see where my ball landed. But I took a swing – and wham! Straight down the fairway.”
A low growl rumbled in Bruno’s throat, not threatening but rather intrigued, as if he were urging Brent to go on. The connection between them began to solidify, the loneliness of the vacant office momentarily forgotten.
“Then, can you believe it?” Brent’s voice dropped to an excited whisper. “I found my ball just inches from the hole! All I had to do was tap it in for a birdie.”
As he spoke, Brent couldn’t help but notice how intently Bruno listened, his head cocking slightly to one side. It was refreshing, really – the way Bruno seemed genuinely interested in his story, unlike so many of his human colleagues. The thought brought a warmth to Brent’s chest, easing the ache of isolation that had settled there.
“Thanks for listening, Bruno,” he said softly, scratching behind the dog’s ear. “It’s been a while since someone paid attention to my golf stories.”
Bruno’s tail wagged gently as if to say, ‘No problem, friend. I’m here.’
The office air, heavy with the faint scent of stale coffee and distant hum of air conditioning, seemed to come alive as Brent regaled Bruno with his golfing exploits.
“Anyway,” he continued, leaning against an abandoned cubicle wall, “I couldn’t believe my luck when I got to the ninth hole.” The patter of Bruno’s tail against the carpet punctuated Brent’s words, filling the silence with a sense of camaraderie.
“Picture this, Bruno,” Brent said, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking confirmation that no one else was privy to his story. “I’m standing there, staring down this impossible shot, right? There’s a sand trap right in front of me, and I’m thinking, ‘There’s no way I’m making it.'”
He paused for effect, his hands gripping an imaginary golf club. “But then, I just take a deep breath, focus, and swing.”
Bruno’s ears perked up, his attention unwavering despite not understanding any of the words Brent spoke. He knew something significant had happened, though, and the enthusiasm in Brent’s voice was contagious.
“Guess what, buddy?” Brent exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement. “I nailed it! Cleared the trap and landed right on the green!” His fist pumped the air triumphantly, recalling the moment in all its glory.
“Man, it felt great,” Brent admitted, his chest swelling with pride. An unbidden smile tugged at his lips, finding solace in the simple act of sharing his story with someone – or rather, some dog – who cared enough to listen.
“Thanks, Bruno,” he whispered, ruffling the golden fur atop Bruno’s broad head. “You’re a good listener, you know that?”
And as Bruno’s tail wagged, brushing the carpet like an artist’s brushstroke on canvas, Brent felt a warmth fill the empty spaces of the office, reminding him that sometimes, even in the most unlikely places, friendship can be found.
As Brent continued to recount his golfing exploits, he noticed the subtle shift in Bruno’s gaze. The golden retriever’s eyes widened slightly, and his ears perked up, giving away his attention to something outside the window.
“Man, I can’t believe I pulled it off,” Brent said, following the direction of Bruno’s gaze. A small bird flitted from branch to branch, its vibrant colors painting a vivid picture against the gray office backdrop.
“Rrrruff!” Bruno let out a soft woof, perhaps acknowledging Brent’s accomplishment or simply reacting to the bird’s playful dance.
“Exactly! That’s what I said!” Brent chuckled, patting Bruno’s head affectionately. His hand sank into the soft fur, feeling the warmth of the dog’s body beneath. The scent of Bruno’s shampoo drifted up to him, bringing with it a sense of comfort and familiarity that had been missing in the emptiness of the office on Mondays.
“Guess you’re more of a birdwatcher than a golfer, huh?” Brent grinned as he watched the bird take flight, leaving behind a flutter of feathers in the air. He leaned back in his chair, relishing the momentary pause in his storytelling and the opportunity to connect with his canine coworker.
“Alright, so where was I?” Brent asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Oh yeah, the twelfth hole…” He launched into another golf tale, his voice infused with newfound energy and confidence. The words flowed effortlessly, painting a vivid image of the lush greens, the sun-kissed skies, and the sound of his golf ball slicing through the air.
Deep down, Brent knew that Bruno didn’t understand the specifics of his stories. But the dog’s unwavering attention and occasional soft “woof” provided something quintessential for Brent—a sense of connection, a feeling that someone cared enough to listen.
And as the morning shadows stretched across the office floor, Brent found solace in an unexpected friendship, one forged in the quiet moments between tales of golfing triumphs and the gentle wagging of a golden retriever’s tail.
The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the carpet. Bruno stretched out in one of them, basking in its warmth as he listened to Brent’s golfing adventures. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest seemed to punctuate the stories, keeping time like a metronome.
“Alright, so I’m sizing up this putt, right? And the green is just a nightmare—” Brent leaned in closer to Bruno, his voice full of excitement.
Bruno shifted, sitting up, his tail thumping against the floor. He sniffed the air, catching a whiff of something interesting. With a newfound determination, he ambled away from Brent, leaving him in mid-sentence.
“Hey, where ya going?” Brent called after him, watching as the dog made his way toward another corner of the office. “Well, alright then,” he muttered, rising from his seat to follow Bruno.
As he approached, Brent noticed the dog had discovered a forgotten tennis ball beneath a desk, remnants of a long-ago game of fetch. Bruno nudged it with his nose, coaxing it into the open before picking it up triumphantly.
“Nice find! Now, where was I?” Brent resumed his story, squatting down next to Bruno, who seemed content to gnaw on his prize for a moment before dropping it at Brent’s feet. “You want me to throw it?” Brent asked, picking it up. Bruno’s eyes sparkled with anticipation, his tail wagging furiously.
“Fine, just one quick toss.” Brent threw the ball down the empty hallway, and Bruno tore after it with surprising speed for his age. The sound of his nails clicking against the tile echoed back to Brent, who couldn’t help but smile.
“Guess that golf talk really got you all worked up, huh?” Brent mused, rubbing the back of his neck as he waited for Bruno’s return.
When the dog trotted back, his tail wagged with a sense of accomplishment. Brent accepted the slobbery ball and continued sharing his exploits on the golf course. The two moved from spot to spot throughout the office, their connection deepening with every hole recounted and every ball thrown.
The clock chimed noon, announcing the arrival of lunchtime. The door to Mr. Hemsworth’s office creaked open, startling Brent. The president stood in the doorway, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You know, Brent, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think Bruno here is your new golf buddy.”
Brent glanced at Bruno, then back at Mr. Hemsworth, suddenly aware of how he must look. He couldn’t help but laugh, acknowledging the absurdity of it all. “I guess you could say that, sir,” he replied, trying to keep the embarrassment at bay. “He’s been a great listener.”
Brent’s face flushed as he met Mr. Hemsworth’s eyes, acutely aware of the golf ball still in his hand. The once lively office now felt like an empty stage, spotlight on him and Bruno. “Well, sir, it’s just that… Mondays are my golf story days, and with everyone remote…” He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous it must sound.
Mr. Hemsworth’s laughter filled the room, a warm and genuine sound that caught Brent off guard. “I’ve heard about your legendary Monday golf tales. Why don’t you join me for lunch? I’ve played a game or two in my time.”
“Really?” Brent couldn’t help the surprise that laced his voice. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and he wiped it away with a quick swipe. Lunch with the president was an unexpected honor—especially considering the circumstances.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Hemsworth replied, his grin unwavering. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good golf conversation.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be honored.”
“Fantastic!” Mr. Hemsworth clapped his hands together, pleased. “My office is stocked with sandwiches and refreshments. Let’s talk golf.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d be honored,” Brent managed to say, his voice betraying a hint of the surprise and delight he felt.
“Fantastic!” Mr. Hemsworth clapped his hands together, pleased. “My office is stocked with sandwiches and refreshments. Let’s talk golf.”
As they walked towards the president’s office, Brent couldn’t help but notice the way the plush carpet muffled their footsteps.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Hemsworth gestured to a pair of leather chairs in front of his polished mahogany desk. A plate of sandwiches rested on a silver tray nearby, and the aroma of fresh bread and sliced meats wafted through the air.
