Meet Me at the Metro

6: UNBEARABLE

T H E O

To say that work has been utter shite lately would be an understatement. In typical fashion, my manager, Rob, is being a fucking wanker again. He asks me to come in and cover extra shifts but always ends up keeping me well past the bloody time that I'm scheduled to get off. It's like he's completely oblivious to the fact that I'm a full-time uni student.

Either that or he simply just doesn't care.

Because the last thing I need right now is to be spending my time serving a bunch of old, drunk idiots all day. Yet, here I am...serving old, drunk idiots all day.

I should be sitting my arse down in front of a piano and practicing for this senior performance critique coming up at the end of the year because my mental health or wallet can't afford for me to have to repeat this final year of my studies for a BA in music. Unfortunately, my water bill isn't going to pay itself either so I've got to prioritize my needs carefully.

My hands work quickly as I finish restocking the empty bottles of liquor and whiskey lined against the wall in front of me.

"Rob!" I call out as I finish topping off the final bottle of scotch and yank off the apron clung to my waist. "I'm going out for a fag."

"You're still on the clock mate, and you've already taken two smoke breaks this shift."

Rob has a point, maybe I should take it easy on the cancer sticks but also fuck him and his points because my nerves are shot and what I need right now is a good buzz.

"I'm going out for a fag," I repeat, pushing through the bar's backdoor.

The fresh, London air brushes against my skin, and I breathe it in, feeling some of the day's tension release from my shoulders. I lean my back against the brick behind me, relieving myself of half my body weight while I yank out a cigarette from my back pocket. I watch the colors of my lighter's flame shift as it begins to burn the end of the fag.

My thoughts begin to drift to memories of when I first applied to Gullie's, and I can't help but laugh at myself when I think about how naive I was in thinking that it would be a promising job for a university student.

Boy, was I wrong.

The only positive attribute that this tiny, greasy fish-and-chips-serving pub offers me is easy access to a wide range of alcohol and a reasonable living wage. Rob's the beloved owner that I've had the golden privilege of working for, and by privilege, I really mean disadvantage, because this man is the least professional business owner I've ever come across. Christ, he's a drunk himself, with a round belly that makes him look as though he's carrying a baby to term even though I know the only thing this bloke has in his stomach is booze, bangers, and mash.

Conveniently enough, the bar is only a stone's throw away from Evie and Harvey's place, which grants me an easy escape from many workplace situations and is actually how I came to meet both of them in the first place. Unfortunately, it's also the way I came to meet her had I not stopped by there after my shift the other night.

What a fine introduction I had with Miss Nora.

Or Eleanor, I suppose. I personally think Nora has a much better ring to it. Even better, I found it quite amusing to see the way her face scrunched up when I used it. Judging from the few short moments I had with her, I can tell she's just as much of a smart arse-albeit a tamer one-as I am. At first, I found myself hating that but now I'm starting to think that I may just like the challenge it brings.

I don't necessarily enjoy arguing but I can't lie and say I don't find it a little bit fun with her. Despite how much she ends up pissing me off by the end of our conversations. God, that's infuriating- she's infuriating.