“What about you? You’re being paid to suffocate. If I don’t get free booze, there’s no reason I should stay.” I lift my drink. “Comradery.” His eyes narrow at my tequila sunrise. “Is that free?” I see his eyes say: You call that comradery? I suck the straw and bat my eyelashes innocently. “Bad day.” John swivels back to his cousin. And very seriously says, “I’ve had the most tragic Saturday—” “You consider every day a tragic one,” she cuts him off. “Nice try.”
