Andy's story continues...

Installment three of my latest story.

Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.

He was the last person in the office and he was looking at his monitor in contempt. The new fonts were bothering him. He'd insisted that his decision was final in a heated debate with his Picture Editor, Dominic, but now he wasn't sure. And the more he continued to scrutinise them, the more they irritated him, blurred and danced up and down, jeering at him and his inability to make a decision without second guessing himself. His eyes were beginning to sting again. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets in a circular motion, trying to generate some sort of lubrication, or dull himself into a trance.

'Ah...tough decision to make eh? The cerulean or the indigo for the strapline? I've really been looking at the layout again and...' what Dominic said next was lost on Andy. Dominic jabbered on about this colour code and that, but Andy let his eyes wander around the room. Simon was packing up now. He was on the phone and wrestling with a usb cable with the other hand. He was smiling. Really smiling. Andy began to notice how straight his teeth were; bizarrely straight in fact. Had he had work done? He was a poof after all. But he'd never considered Si to be camp. Not in the tight net vest, glow sticks and boasting about sex at the gym, camp. Why was he smiling so hard? Must have been on the phone to his 'partner.'

Andy had been averting Dom's peepers for a moment too long because Dominic was now out of his chair and wafting his hand in front of Andy's face like a petulant child. Andy was almost convinced his picture editor had ADHD.

'Jeez Andy. You should go home mate. You're looking pretty haggard these days. Go home and bang your wife for Christ's sake.' Haggard? Really? People thought he looked haggard. Balls. What was wrong with the good old 'shagged' 'shattered' or 'knackered'? Andy decided to ignore the rather inappropriate comment about 'banging his wife' and chanced a look at himself in the office window, which doubled up as a mirror, now that the steets of London were dark and glittering with shop window lights. He opened his mouth wide and grinned. Bloody hell, he's spot on. I look craggier than Gordon bloody Ramsey. He didn't appreciate his sallow skin or the crooked teeth either.

'I need to get out of this place. I'm ageing by the minute.' Dominic was already half way out of the door and didn't bother to acknowledge Andy's comment.

As Andy shuffled out of the office, trying his best not to wince from the pain in his bunions - he'd left his trainers under his desk - he thought he might grab a drink to snaffle on the train ride home... Something to take the edge off seeing his devastatingly beautiful wife and knowing she expected a good seeing to. He stopped at a Threshers on the way to the station.

'Sir. I'll have one... Bottle of vodka.'
'Yes sir... Any particular brand?' the shop assisant peeked over the counter, almost indecipherably, at Andy's glossy shoes and thought he was on to a winner.
'Errrr...Oh just the cheap stuff over there will do.' He wagged his finger at a clear bottle covered with an orange label and some foreign words Andy could not translate. He could afford better, but he wanted it to feel dirty, really naughty.

'Ten pounds for the Polish stuff. But you know, the Russian is probably better-'
'That'll be all'. He handed the man one of six notes in his wallet and swiped his booty from the nice middle aged man. He didn't wait for the ride home to get a taste of the mind numbing substance. Once he was outside the shop, ignoring the lash of the wind and rain, he wrapped the plastic Threshers' bag tightly around the bottle, unscrewed the lid and felt the liquid burn his cracked lips, warm his throat and tingle in his stomach. That's when he realised he was supposed to be eating out - having lied to his wife about meeting the guy from the MOD - she wouldn't be cooking for him tonight. His stomach gurgled. The greasy kebab shop was calling. He dived into Hal's kebab hut and picked up a mixed doner and a side of chips.

As he approached the station, It didn't even occur to him what he looked like. His tie hung loose on his chest, his shirt untucked, as he stumbled on to the train. He slumped himself across three seats on the practically empty train and popped open the squeaky yellow polystyrene box. The train wasn't leaving for another fifteen minutes. He slipped the fatty meat and dry chips into his gob inbetween swigs of his vodka. The bottle was half empty and he was drunk. He belched loud and unashamed.

More people were entering the train. It was a mixed batch. It wasn't that late so he wasn't surprised to see lovesick teenagers, families holding show programmes, as well as an elderly couple holding each other's hands. And then he saw Simon Hiles.

'Andy... Is that a Hal's Kebab special?' Si and his partner stood unblinking, waiting for an answer. Holy shit...this is humiliating.