The closer it gets to 5 PM, the longer I stare at the clock, silently begging for it to move faster. “C’mon, minute hand,” I think. “I believe in you.” Not that I hate my job. In fact, I love working in IT. Flexible hours, lax office environment, and I have a knack for computers so my job isn’t exactly difficult. But I don’t get enjoyment out of the typical routines anymore. I haven’t for about a year.
Dave pops in and taps on the top of my cubicle, grinning at me over the partition. “Wakey wakey,” he says.
I blink a few times, smiling slightly. “Just one more minute.” It’s 4:59. So close.
“Just one more minute until… you come out with us?” he asks suggestively.
“Don’t tell me…”
“We’re getting drinks,” Dave says, and I sigh. I know exactly what he means when he says “drinks.” It means him and the Boys (or at least, that’s what they call themselves as a collective) are going to throw back a few shots of Jim Beam and peruse the local strip club.