it's eight thirty-three am and dan is late again, sloshing through murky puddles on his way to work.
by the time dan's pushed open the door into the too-colourful room, it's eight forty-nine - it would have been faster to take the tube, but dan doesn't have it in him to care about the time he gets to work at.
he knows he's going to get fired, it's mostly a question of when.
there aren't any customers so early in the morning, as usual; phil's the only one there. dan isn't exactly sure why they open so early if people don't start arriving until eleven.
"you're late," phil says, rising from his seat at the register.
"not the first time, is it?" dan says languidly as he throws his messenger bag down on the counter.
"that's not sanit-"
"i don't give a damn about what's sanitary or not, i'm tired and sad and don't have time for this."
phil looks hurt, and dan immediately wants to take back his words. he didn't mean to snap at phil, but he's angry and depressed and scared and needs to talk to someone.
"sorry," he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets.
phil pulls another barstool out from under the counter and beckons dan over, and what can dan do but obey?
