“Yeah, well look at me here. I’m 45, I’m unemployed, I’m 50 pounds overweight, my wife dumped me last year for a 25-year old aerobics instructor, and I lost my house in the divorce. Just what do I have to be grateful for?”
Liz straightened her posture and plopped the beer mugs on the table. Her lower back hurt and her shoes were too tight. She hated men who felt sorry for themselves.
“Look,” she said, “you’re sitting here on your ass watching a hockey game on TV and all your best friends are here. You’ve got a bar tab that’s a year overdue and Tony doesn’t make you pay. Seems like you got nothing to complain about, you know what I mean?”
“What bug’s up your ass, Liz?”
She rolled her eyes and went to the next table. The mailman – big pain in the neck, too. Always trying to ask her out on a date. “Hey, Liz, why don’t you sit down a moment, give your feet and your back a rest. Ain’t easy being a bar waitress.”
“Look,” she said, “I’m not interested in you, so scram, you know what I mean?” She put his beer mug in front of him and turned on her heal, but she twisted her ankle. The mailman got up and helped her into his chair.
“Liz, you sit right here. About time someone took care of you for once.”
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