Welcome to Reality [UPDATES FRIDAY]

1. Oskar

The clock ticks slower the longer you look at it. Not literally, I suppose, but sometimes I stare at the work clock so hard, the hands seem to drag each time they move. I lean on the till, trying not to focus on my aching legs. I've been stood behind this till for three hours and not one customer has come in.

The TV in the corner of the room is on mute, but there's a live stream of RealiTV on the screen. There's an advert break on, but every commercial is propaganda for another of the network's shows or endless – and pointless – merchandises. I opt to stare into the opposite corner. Anything's better than getting addicted to their shows.

Tom comes out from the stockroom, scratching at his shaggy greying beard. He looks around the store as though he's expecting someone to appear from behind the shelves. 'Not one customer?'

'I'm sure someone will turn up soon...'

'Give them a flash of your pearly whites for once, son. That should bring in a few people.'

'Yessir.'

Tom places his hands on his hips, looking around his store. He must know it like the back of his hand. It's been here for as long as I can remember. But the look he gives it is one of depression and resignation. The shelves are half empty, but not because the customers are snatching up the stock. I know Tom has been lessening his shipments this year. No one is buying anything.

'No such thing as small business loyalty anymore, is there, eh?'

I don't know how to respond, so I just shrug. Tom shook his head.

'I don't know, Oskar. I'm starting to think I should cut your hours. I can handle the desk myself.'

'It's okay! I don't mind being here,' I lie. I don't mention that on less than minimum wage, I need as many hours as I can get. I don't need to. He already knows I have nowhere else to turn to for work.

Tom nods again, not meeting my eye. He scans the shop again. I can sense I'm not the only one praying for a miracle.

'Well, my pockets are starting to feel a little light, son. Not much I can do about it. Maybe you should start looking elsewhere. I can give you a good reference.' Tom pats my shoulder. 'You'll be alright, son. Your Liam will keep you afloat.'

'Yessir.'

'I hate to do this to you.'

I know. I know he's not doing this out of spite. I almost wish he was. It would give justification to my anger. But it's not Tom's fault. The sun doesn't shine on either of us, I guess. 'Don't worry,' I tell him. 'I'm sure things will brighten up soon.'

Tom snorts, lighting a cigarette and heading out the back again. 'We'd better bloody hope so.'

Tom sends me home an hour early, in the end. That's an hour's pay I won't be taking home, and I can't bear to tell Liam. I take the long way home so that by the time I reach his flat, I've almost filled the extra time I would have spent at work. I stand outside for a while. I can see Liam inside, playing video games from the comfort of his bed, not bothering to close the curtains. I wonder if he's moved much today. I wait until seven before I fish out Liam's spare key and let myself in.

Liam hears me come in and bounds to the door like an excitable puppy. He's still in his boxers and he stinks like last night's beer when he comes to hug me. I roll my eyes.

'Someone hasn't showered today.'

'Hangover days aren't for showering,' Liam insists, pecking my lips. I wince at the bitter taste on his lips.