I LOVE YOU DANGEROUSLY

1 Joshua

I regret turning off my computer ten minutes earlier or forgetting that on Fridays, usually, colleagues decide to book a table at Temple Bar for a beer together after work. Today is not that day. To be honest, it hasn't been for a while, especially when you're a criminal defense lawyer and every day someone wakes up and becomes a potential murderer who, right after stabbing their spouse, can't even remember what they did. The problem is that when you're not just a public defender and work for a well-known firm in the capital, your client is rarely innocent but has enough money to pay you, and as their lawyer, if you cash their check, you have to bust your ass to keep them out of prison, even if they're guilty.

It's shit, but there are two alternatives, and you're always forced to choose between the good life and being unlucky. I undoubtedly prefer the good life. I studied and made sacrifices to get where I am now, and I'm not the criminal here. I'm just a lawyer, and I let God decide whether the scumbags' souls should go straight to hell or make a pit stop in purgatory. Maybe I won't be absolved of my sins for defending the scum, but I prefer not to think about it for now.

"You're a fucking pain in the ass, Jo."

If Matt, the lawyer in the office next to mine, doesn't stop touching me when he talks, he'll eventually get a punch. I can't stand this kind of contact, people touching you without even having a bit of familiarity to do so. I brush off my jacket where he brushed against me, hoping this gesture will remind him not to do it again. Then I raise a hand to wave goodbye to him and the others and don't respond, rushing towards the elevators in the east wing to avoid their attempts to get me to follow them. It would be futile, and I just want to have a Harp Lager, a super blonde and refreshing one, at Patrick's bar downstairs in complete solitude, so that if I were to go overboard, the chances of getting my driver's license revoked for drunk driving would be almost nonexistent. And that's exactly what I do, these gestures have become almost mechanical.

Office, courthouse, office, courthouse.

Home.

Sometimes Patrick's pub, the classic quiet place with dim lights, the scent of beer impregnating the clothes, and people minding their own business. Occasionally, I have to socialize with colleagues and endure nights in the most chaotic pubs in Dublin or trips to London and Paris for conferences with other lawyers.

And then there are women: the best diversion God could create to free the mind from work thoughts and the sweetest means to relieve sexual tension.

Some say I should find a steady one. My mother, for example. But at my age, the good girls start to become scarce. The ones faithful and dedicated to family, who also tend to happily gain weight and leave you in a position to seek fresh meat elsewhere. So, I don't want to risk settling for a leftover hag or some divorced slut who's dying to find a poor idiot to support her and her children from a previous relationship. Considering younger ones is out of the question. They're perfect for wild nights, uninhibited and eager for commitment-free sex, although they're dying to get an engagement ring and live off someone else. Worse, they're even willing to stab you in your sleep to cash in on the entire fortune, and unfortunately, with my job, I've seen and heard of cases like that. So, I prefer to avoid steady relationships, I settle for sex alone, and I'm not afraid of being alone.

"Rough day, huh?" Patrick asks.

He's tall, reddish with the rosy complexion of a good Irishman, green eyes behind a pair of glasses correcting his nearsightedness, and on certain occasions, he proves to be a great listener. He immediately hands me a beer without needing to ask what I want.

"Yeah, one of those shitty days."

I unbutton my jacket and settle onto the vacant stool in front of the bar. I didn't even notice the people crowding the place, although it's usually quite calm here, especially when the weekend approaches and everyone prefers to spend time in the crowded downtown bars and leave the outskirts behind.

"So, who got killed this time?"

"Believe me, if I were you, I wouldn't want to know."

"Mm, now I'm curious."

Sometimes it feels like playing that game where you guess the characters.

"The victim is a bartender."

He freezes and stops drying a beer mug that's already dry, while I take a sip from my glass and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Okay, you're right, I don't want to know anymore."

It takes little to silence a person sometimes.

"What did I tell you?" I raise the beer mug and pretend to toast, then gulp down another generous sip.

"I think you need a vacation, my friend."

"You're not entirely wrong!"

Patrick walks away to pour a red beer for a man who might be on his third round, judging by his half-open, bloodshot eyes. I'm sure that at the next round, my friend will politely ask him to leave his establishment. He hates alcoholics and has no intention of turning his pub into a meeting place for troubled people inclined towards alcohol.

"So," he asks, returning to me. "When are you taking these holidays?"

"What? I think soon."

"The last time you said 'soon,' two months had passed, Joshua."

"Okay, I admit it's not easy for me to take time off from work." Some jobs require consistency and sacrifice. If you decide to pursue a career, you certainly don't often check the calendar to plan vacations. "It would be easier to distract myself."

"Women?"

"Exactly, but in this shitty place, only old drunks come in!" I tease him.