Last Orders.

I haven’t thought about going to the pub on my own in years. Not in a kind of, I know the people there, in a drinking on my own in the corner kind of way.

They used to be friendly, I was a regular, but now I’m too regular, long since known that closing time was upon me, not ready to go home.

Locked in there in the cold and dark, the microwave meals only warm you so much.

There I am again, excited.

Excited to finish. I’ve been clock watching for, who am I kidding, all day long. Pubs been open since four. But I have to work. If you can call sitting at a laptop in a vapey room working. Still, I get paid for it.

I used to care about promotions and the career ladder, but I must’ve walked under, missed the call, I was probably on another line.

What do I do when I’m there?

Sometimes I bring a paper and pen and write this shit you read, most times I forget to. I used to bring a book and pretend to read it, but people notice you not turning the pages.

Can’t even lie to you, and say that I sit there thinking. I don’t.

If I did I wouldn’t remember, so maybe I do.

I’m there now, writing this, as fast as I can so I can do what I came here to do.

What am I doing. This can’t be right. Surely I’m not this.

I don’t. My problem isn’t that bad, yes, I know the way they look at me, but they’ve never asked me to leave. It’s fine, don’t worry. I am worrying. I need to change. I can’t keep doing this.

Time to make a change. Tomorrow. Obviously tomorrow.

Yeah. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll go to the other pub. I’ll bring a book. Some pens and paper.

I’ll read and I’ll write just like I used to here.

What? Last orders already?