“Hello, Russel. This is Dr. Fraiser Krane. I’m listening.”

“Well, I’ve been feeling sort of, you know, depressed lately. My life’s not going anywhere. It’s not that bad, it’s just that my marriage isn’t fulfilling, I have no real friends to speak of, I guess I just don’t feel seen is all.”

Fraiser rubbed his temple for a few moments. When he opened his mouth to speak, he was distracted by his producer, Roz, flailing her limbs and gesticulating at the clock in a manner thoroughly unprofessional for someone working in the prestigious pop-radio industry.

Wait, what? That little time left? Hm, better wrap this up quick.

“Well, Russ, it’s like this. I used to work in Detroit and frequented this dive bar. Cheers. I stopped getting patients for my practice, my best friends were broke alcoholics. That was the darkest period of my life. But then I decided I needed to make a change. So I dropped everything, moved to another state, bought an apartment on a whim, and used my connections to get a job in radio. I guess what I’m saying, Russel, is that you ever feel like things aren’t working out, or they’ve lost their novelty, just move on. How’s that sound to you, Russel. Russel? Roz, what happened to our caller?”

“Show ended a minute ago. He just heard the dial tone.”

Fraiser strolled into his producer’s room, chuckling. “You know, that’s life huh. I felt like I was getting through to a caller, and then cancelled by the studio. Reminds me of something I read by Camus, he once said --”

“Ughh can it, Fraiser. I had to listen to you yakkin on for two hours. I think I deserve a bit of a break.”

“Fine then. We can shift our conversation to more... pedestrian topics. Oh, I’m meeting my brother Niles for the first time in a couple years today at some coffee shop.”

“Are you nervous?”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Well, absolutely, I’m trying to find the right tie to perfectly encapsulate my feelings of ‘I make more money than you’ and ‘I’m not married to a horrific wench like Maris.’”

“Fraiser.”

“Yes?”

“You doofus, I meant if you’re nervous about meeting your brother! Are you on good terms?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then why haven’t you talked to your brother in years?”

(Under his breath) “Maybe you should get a radio show.”

“What was that?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“I thought so. Anyway, shouldn’t you be going if you want to make it before lunch is over?”

The cafe itself is a quaint little place, with homemade artwork lining the walls and coffee grounds in glass jars lining the sales desk. It’s quite a bustling place; despite the lunch rush having passed, many come for the smells, work environment, or the company. It’s the haunt for the sort-of philosophers, the in-between-jobs actors, and faux-poetry. Fraiser was not surprised to see his brother Niles there.

Niles, dressed in a tweed jacket and slacks, passively sips his coffee. Knowing Niles, it’s a “milk tea coffee with extra milk and sugar” or an “Herbal Blend.” Really, how did people get along with that bothersome brother of his.

“Ah, Fraiser. Hello, there. How are you this divine afternoon?”

“Oh, you know me Niles, just looking for a quiet place and some caffeine.”

The waitress approached the pair’s table near the register. She had on a faded dark-green apron that fit her city-girl appearance quite well. The waitress turned to Niles, asking, “Hello you two, can I get you anything?”

“Ah, I’ll have a black coffee with citrus extract and sugar. My brother here - is there an extra-decaf option? He’s on a bit of a diet here.”

“Ah, so sorry about my brother, he’s quite like his coffee - bitter and only liked by pretentious twats.”

As the waitress skittered off, Fraiser shot his brother a disgusted glare.