“Some of the slides are drier than others,” he nods. “Did you take enough notes?”
“I filled two notepads, and I almost used up a whole pen,” I tell him with just a hint of pride, because it is true. They're just a lot of doodles. But it's been a while since I worked with a ballpoint pen, and I'm rather pleased with how they came out. Normally I don't have the patience for stipple shading, but it works really well for the medium and, in five hours of presentations, I had the time.
I open my mouth to say something about all that, when our drinks are pushed at us, and the bartender is gone in a puff of smoke.
I pause, and push that thought away. I’m not going to tell him about myself. That way lays dragons. Or is how dragons get laid. I don’t know. I don't want to mix work and my art.
“You must be more attentive than me; I only got through one,” he returns, and it feels like a lie to just let him believe that. I try to tell myself I don't care because I don't know him all that well. But then again, I don't want anyone to think I'm super capable at my job and expect a lot out of me only to discover I'm actually just barely getting through it and faking that I know things.
Maybe it's fine. I probably won't interface with him much at work if I haven't talked to him up till this point. Still, probably better to not encourage that illusion too much.
Scooping my second drink up, I knock a sip back and fill my mouth with ice cubes.
I do know from doing it every day that the best way to avoid engaging with people is to be unengaging. I’m going to make myself boring. With any luck, he’ll find an excuse to pause our conversation, and after about thirty seconds of sitting alone, I will be good to get back up to my room.
“I think I owe you a drink after this morning,” he says in that lower-than-the-crust-of-the-earth voice. It cuts through the sound of the crowd and the music easily. I'm not really following his logic, but I agree. I'm owed many, many drinks, and a therapy bill.
“Does it count if it's on the company tab?” I return and feel very cool about myself for a second. Not so much when I have to repeat myself at not quite shouting volume just so he can hear me over everything.
He cracks a smile, and when I say cracks, for a moment I really thought it would break his stony features to physically move like that.
“It's up to you,” he shrugs, unperturbed, though his eyes don't look entirely like he's networking.
I give him a once-over. There's some appreciative eyeing going on, I won't lie. I can't be blamed for what being in the middle of my cycle does to me.
“What are you drinking?” he asks, plucking up my glass from the bar and taking a sip for himself before I can answer. He signals to the bartender to send me another vodka tonic with extra lime.
It's a move that is so Peak District Suit that for a moment it's like I never left. Next, he's going to tell me I should invest my money in futures or whatever it is that these over-suave, financial analyst types say.
I hate that it kind of works for me. Even when I interned in the Peaks, I wouldn't let that kind of thing phase me.
My second drink arrives, and I take a sip from it. I chew my lip for a moment. No, it's a dick move, I decide. I'm also going to decide I don't like it.
“You seem like you want to share yourself with people. Maybe not every person you meet, but you're just brimming with things you want to share.”
I try not to let my eyes roll out of my head. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic, or he genuinely thinks that.
“Second thought, I might just turn in early. I haven't recovered from that red-eye yet,” I say, and kind of half-ass a fake yawn. I don't care if he actually thinks I'm sleepy. “Do you want the rest of this one too?”
He fits himself into the seat at the bar next to mine, in the corner by the wall. He turns the seat just enough to face more towards me, and lets his wings stretch out a little. “Not going to tough it out? People might not think you're a team player.”
Good for him; he's stumbled into my two other least favorite things. Soldiering on when I feel like crap and team player rhetoric.
“Why does being a team player have to mean ignoring my discomfort? Doesn't seem like a good team to be on.”
“It's playing the game,” he shrugs, like it's that simple, and not the agony of trying to come up with any kind of conversation with coworkers. “Climbing the corporate ladder is a lot harder alone.”
Of course, he sees it as vital to climbing up the ranks. That anyone who gets put in a position of higher management is there because they prioritize networking and the glad-handing circle-jerk.
It’s kind of weird that a guy like him would be working at a small company like this one, now that I think about it. Gargoyles are kind of known for being ladder-climbers—top of the food chain kind of guys. There’s a saying that if you need to find one, just go to the top floor of the tallest building around.
I can't imagine feeling that way. Not for a bunch of people who won't notice whether I stick around till the last round or not.
“Yeah, well. Game's rigged against us boring people.”
“No one designed it to be fair.”
My scoff is probably audible to half the bar. “Then someone should.”
