He kept snapping out of it, again and again, for the next two days. He’d take deep breaths, force himself to grin, pull in his stomach, think of the ride with Veronica, think of Dawn. But once he stopped being determined he’d slump again. His neck was sore. He felt absolutely shagged. All the time. But he tried; he really did.
He was really nice to Bimbo, extra friendly to him.
—How’s it goin’, and he patted his back.
He whistled and sang as he worked.
—DUM DEE DEE DUM DEE DEE—DUM—DEE—
But, Christ, when he stopped trying he nearly collapsed into the fryer. You’re grand, he told himself. You’re grand, you’re alright. You’re grand. You’re a lucky fuckin’ man.
But it only happened a couple of times, the two of them feeling good working together. And it wasn’t even that good then because they were nervous and cagey, waiting for it to go wrong again.
It was like a film about a marriage breaking up.
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