The Writers' Circle

Robert Tundish sat impatiently outside the glass faced library, some time had passed since his phone last rang and anxiety more than annoyance was causing a tick to develop in his leg, his foot tapped, no rhythm, just perplexing bursts of movement, a thousand tiny steps carrying his nerves on their immeasurable journey. His long heavy greatcoat was protecting his back and neck from the unwelcome shadow that had dropped itself lazily over the rooftops and now hung motionless, sprawled across the grey concrete courtyard, despite the protection the coat offered however, an uncontrollable shudder managed to work its way up his spine sending his throat and neck into minute paroxysms. Robert tilted his head backwards and stared up at the sky, a sprawling grey mass, fringed with a foam of white cloud was slowly encroaching upon the open space in the sky above the library, down on the ground, the cloud was casting it's cold shadow, thin wispy fingers clawed at the remaining patches of warm golden light. Robert felt the temperature drop, a gentle wind blew cold air in through the open flaps of his coat, he shuddered again and rose. 

Three colleagues perched on the yellowed concrete block, Lionel was slouching, his posture reflected the years he had spent sitting at desks in poorly made chairs; he didn't like conflict, he had never followed through on the request his friend had suggested for new chairs, he knew that if he appealed to the HR department that the chairs were affecting his health he could have new chairs within a month; but he didn't like the thought of stirring up trouble; he didn't like when people looked at him with disdain; he didn't like to, as he said, "upset the balance in the workplace, its delicate you know, you have to tread carefully". His shoulders sloped inwards and the curve of his back arched as he leant forward to utter a few words to Maria who sat at the opposite end of the bench. 
-	So, err, what was your weekend.how did you. sorry, good weekend?
Maria paused and looked at Lionel, his rheumy eyes seemed to be weeping into the bags that hung heavy below his lids. His skin was pallid, more so than usual, and his countenance drooped listlessly from his face.
-	My weekend was fine thank you Lionel. Yours? Have you been sleeping badly?
Lionel considered her question, decided not to reflect negatively on her observation, and reclined a few inches; his back ached, stiff and cold, he considered Maria's question.
-	Yes.my back, its err. well my mattress is on the way out so its not making sleeping easy
Whilst the pair were conversing, Jonia, who was sat spare amidst the back and forth of awkward words, stared loathsomely at the hand that had sat on Lionel's knee, fidgeting constantly, scratching, clenching rubbing, it was driving her to distraction. She detested Lionel, she felt towards him an innate repugnance, she did not know exactly why she disliked him so much, she felt that it might be his lack of hygiene or general self-preservation, but traceable or not, her hatred of him was causing her to view his stuttering conversational inadequacy as a direct insult to her intelligence.