Then one Friday, I just watched the team carefully. Waited until I saw the flurry of shared looks, and the messages on phones and the not-so-secret chat group I was not invited to and everyone pretended didn’t exist. I waited at my desk when end of play hit, to see when people would get their coats, to see if the others came down from the other floors and asked, ‘Where to tonight?’
I could have just asked them. I sat there in my shame, knowing I could have just asked them. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Maybe you deserved to be left out if you insist on going about things in such a hidden, sneaky way.
If I was honest, it was because I didn’t expect them to tell me. I should have paid attention to that feeling. I should have listened to that part of myself. Taken the hint. Stopped engaging in what was clearly some social version of self-harm. But it’s hard to have a spine when the people you’re stuck with eight hours a day are your only socialization, even if they don’t want anything to do with you. Or when loneliness is not a good enough reason to leave a well-paying job.
Or when part of you believes no one in their right mind would want to include you anyway. Not once they know what you’re really like.
But anyway, I waited. And it paid off. One of the devs came down and asked, “Are we off then?”
“Where to?” I’d asked, coat already on, ready to go.
I’d noticed a small look flash between some of my team.
“Just for a drink. Probably only one.”
“Cool, I’ll come with,” I’d said.
As they let me follow along, I actually felt good. Like I was finally doing it, getting over whatever this thing was that separated me from everyone else. Maybe I just needed to give people a chance. Maybe I just needed to open up a little. Maybe they would help me find my better self.
I followed them to a pub set in an old whisky bond, all glass and hammered copper set against old beams and time-blackened stone. They talked among themselves as I followed them up to the bar.
I ordered a glass of wine. It was the second least expensive one on the list, even though I’d been told that was the one bars and restaurants made the biggest mark-up on, knowing that everyone buys it. I was already breaking one set of difficult social conditioning; challenging the order of wine prices would have to wait.
I found a seat at the table, making sure to sit in the middle so that I could have my choice of conversations to join. Unfortunately, both sides quickly turned away from me, lost in talk at their own ends, leaving me like Moses parting the middle. I tried a couple of times, leaning in, making those active listening nods and ‘ah’s’ and ‘yeah’s’. But even if I had been included, I could barely make out a word anyone was actually saying. Everything was so loud.
So, I drank my wine to give my hands something to do.
And then I got up to order another glass, to give myself something to do, to fit into the surroundings, to be part of the machinery of the place and not the one dead cog stuck on the outside.
And then I drank that glass, too fast.
And then I got up to go to the bar again. I offered a round out to the table, but everyone was still halfway through drinks. Somewhere along the way, pinballing through people back to the bar, I decided to buy some fizz for the table. I bought a bottle of the second least expensive prosecco. I tottered back with it and a handful of glasses. My arrival won a small sound of surprise, raised eyebrows, a few ‘oh’s’. Some eagerly reached for a glass, while others thanked me politely but refused.
I drank two glasses, again too quickly. It was a little warm and sweet. Not the best. But I was drunk enough to slug it down anyway.
And then there was a tray of shots.
And then I remembered talking to someone. They were watching me talk, but even in my drunken state I could tell it was in that humouring way.
Nod and listen to the monologue and hope you can catch eyes with someone else and pass the role of listener on.
And then I remembered stumbling home.
And then I remembered waking up on my bed and vomiting over the side.
And then I remembered remembering and I curled around myself wishing I could sleep forever.
I was full of dread on the walk to work the next Monday. What would they think of me? What had I said to them?
I needn’t have worried. No one said anything about me. They were too busy talking about the club they’d gone to after I’d left. I sat at my computer, not even bothering to try and join in this time.
The girl I’d drunkenly talked the ear off of caught me in the kitchen later. She asked about my father and whether I’d spoken to him about all that stuff I’d mentioned on Friday. I pretended I didn’t hear her and went back to my desk, leaving my tea unfinished on the kitchen counter.
A few months later, another new girl started with the agency. She was invited immediately to Friday drinks. I see photos of her hanging out with my old colleagues all the time on social media. She was confident and happy, too. Just like my new neighbour.
Or my new new neighbour.
