You working tomorrow?
God, maybe I said his name too many times.
I type out a reply.
What’s it to you?
Not even a minute later, the little gray bubbles turn to a new message.
Dumbass
A little defensive, aren’t we?
A little creepy, aren’t we?
Dumbass
Just answer the goddamn question.
I make him wait for my reply.
Yes, I’m working.
It takes him a couple minutes to reply.
Dumbass
A late shift?
As if I ever get given any other shifts.
The dots come and go I don’t know how many times, and I wonder what it is that he’s writing then deleting each time.
Eventually, he writes:
Dumbass
What time do you finish?
What’s with the twenty questions, Southwick?
All I get in return is an emoji of a guy shrugging. Honestly, he needs to find a new movement, one more shrug and he’ll turn into August.
Finley.
Dumbass
What are you doing up? It’s three in the morning.
He’s evading the question, but right now I’m too tired to argue.
I know how to read a clock.
Dumbass
Can you ever just answer a question normally?
Pot. Kettle. Ringing a bell?
