My God, we were a sorry bunch. It was just the two of us left nursing our beers and cigarettes, bitching about work. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, having received a massive shelling over what I’ll describe as my complete and total lack of interest in doing what I was told to do. I couldn’t help thinking about tomorrow, and how I’d get it. Four years of not rebelling, and then I just didn’t care anymore.
K’s colleague sidled over and joined us, our shared clients having left the scene. She was beautiful, but I didn’t care. I was having beer, and that mattered to me. I asked her if she thought returning to our field of work was a good idea. It was boring there, she said, referring to her former job. ‘Boring’ I thought. Boring’s good, see? Boring means no schizophrenic clients and schizophrenic bosses. Boring means I wouldn’t be at risk of high-blood pressure.
Boring means getting more things I’m interested in done, instead of wasting every damn hour on work, doesn’t it?
She laughed, and K laughed. And I decided we were fools engaged in impossibly stupid professions. I felt murderous and a little tipsy, so I decided to play a bit more pool. It was just the two of us, me and K, by that time. Our pretty little had to be home early. I didn’t want to back, and judging from K’s conversation with his wife, he didn’t want to go back either.
Pool was played. Or is that snooker? I can’t tell the difference since it’s all cues and balls and holes. The only other significant thing that happen was K attempting to cue one of his balls (it wasn’t as ugly as it sounds) instead of the white ball. I laughed. That was it, and it was more beer and veal sausages.
“A bratwurst,†said the lady of the pub.
“You should get those massive bratwursts,†I said, blowing out my cheeks and gesturing.
“Those big ones, right?†she said.
“Yah, those big ones. Chicken ones. Or whatever. But big ones,†I said. I was abruptly silent (I can hear my ang moh teacher say ‘poor sentence construction!’ in my head) because I was suddenly slightly sober, realizing that discussing large bratwursts with the passably-pretty lady of the joint wasn’t a good thing. What a pity.
K and I walked out of the pub, his arm across my shoulders. Ah, God, the shit we’ve gone through together.