Spoiler! :
and I didn't care for him until I heard he was getting fired. He lumbers toward me, and I think about convicts marching towards the chair, the heart stomping emptiness, with his arms swinging as low as his knees. His eyes sit in deep holes, set in sleepless bruise. I watch him, until they leave the floor for me, then my gaze darts away. As he passes, I steal another look. He casts a burly figure, his dark pony tail swings a little with his kinked-knee, duck steps.
I want to talk to him, tell him it is going to be Okay, Alex. But what f-(I won't swear) right do I have to tell this sorry sap sucker, it's going to be a long winter? He'll find out. We sit in the lunch room, joking, talking hockey or rugby - hell, anything except politics. Laughter starts, the laggards eventually giggle their approval of my comparison -- Luongo's form to the Titanic's buoyancy -- all but Alex. He sits glumly, the last third of his Big Mac growing like a tumour (a tumour? yes, yes a tumour) from the back of his hand, until it splits, cheesy guts spilling in his lap. He pinches the guts, like a parlour game claw and stuffs them in his mouth, between chews.
(It feels good striking these keys, like cold water on a burn.)
The rumours spread, and I wonder 'could a rumour about me be out there?' Josh takes longer breaks, they'll say. I feel empty for a moment but these things happen and you get busy so you don't think about every foul word you have uttered across the back of your hand.
A friend told me Alex wants to be a radio presenter, I can see him, too-big head phones framing his expressionless face, but what would he say? It broke my heart. God it hurt. Take my job, I would say, if it made a difference, and damn it I would mean it because
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