I guess. I even know how to turn the stove on and off and I call that an accomplishment. I recognize some people use them to cook food but that seems akin to black magic and I'd rather not deal with it. I try to tell myself that the pudge around my waist and general lack of definition is due to getting close to 30 (still 27, dammit!) and not all of the ramen noodles I eat. Or the drinking. So, I take my drink, ice clinking in the glass, back to the couch. Sitting hunched over, I stare at the box but my mind wanders. It's the same every evening. Kicking myself for being a pussy. I know I should man up and deal with my coworkers better but hindsight is what it is. Easy for me to think of what I should have done but when I'm there and having to deal with people, I get a little mini panic attack. Fight or flight and I always back down. Working in the credit department and having to tell sales people why we can't sell to a particular customer is stressful. I can almost feel the sweat and. .. only to find that Sarah had followed me in.“What are you...?” I started to say, but she put her finger to my lips and half-followed, half-pushed me into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind us.I could tell that she was also quite tipsy. Her face was flushed, and the pinkness had spread down and across her chest, which was very much on show in the black tank-top she was wearing. I realised that I was staring and moved my eyes upward, only to find myself staring into those big, dark eyes. After a while, we moved over to the shower and turned on the tap before turning back to me. The sound of the flowing water and the accompanying steam quickly filled the tiny bathroom.“Go on then,” she said, nodding towards the shower.I frowned at her and laughed. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I think that part of my brain had realised what was going on, but it couldn’t make itself heard clearly through the fog of drunkenness. It was also being drowned out by another part of my psyche.
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