The wee group of nurses comes in every Thursday night. They’re all pretty girls, but he’s taken a shine to the redhead. Twenty years ago he would have told her so, now he just watches. Plenty punters do crack on, they get a bit of banter and some lovely smiles but that’s it.
The nurses laugh a lot, which Paul likes, and that time one of his boys slit a finger open on the lime knife, Paul’s redhead bandaged it up for him beautifully.
For them, Paul has started adding a case of those teeny tonic bottles to his beer order. Not that they drink so many G&Ts, no Friday hangovers allowed.
This Thursday, there’s a new nurse.
‘You work in the hospital as well, love?’ Paul said.
‘You like the nursing then?’
‘The rest of the girls there, seem to live for it.’
‘They told you they were nurses?’ she said, jerking her head towards Paul’s favourite table with her lips twisted up. ‘That’s a medical physicist, two nuclear medicine consultants and a radiology specialist.’
Paul looks at her, then back to his wee group. They’re chatting and laughing just the same way they always do.
This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.