This place gets louder in the evenings, when the Casual Fridays head on home to their glasses of Casillero del Diablo and tales of what Sorcha told them in the kitchen.
There will always be left a straggler, invariably the biggest dickhead of them all, staying late to 'box things off' when he's really avoiding the wife. He'll gab away on the phone, munch on an apple, hock and snot and sigh and moan and talk to anyone that enters the room. Except me.
Two years in the same office and he never learned my name. Suppose he never had to.
Because he's the loudest man in any Dublin room I don't need to eavesdrop, his tell of 'training with the lads' and going for a barbecue on Saturday is slicing through my headphones. All I wanted was to do an adequate job at low, low prices.
His life is in my brain and I can't help wondering why he's here. He normally smiletalks his way out of the office around 4.30pm, the erection borne of a game of golf only barely disguised by bulk-bought pants on the wrong side of tight.
I imagine his wife never curses but she did last night, she told him he can fuck right off if he thinks he can saunter in at 2am on a Monday and expect her to comply. I see her flicking through his phone, annoyed to find nothing incriminating and giving him hell for the loyalty.
So he stays late, and annoys my invisible head. He fidgets and fumbles and jigs around his keys, does a dance with his jacket and eventually, come quarter to eight, heads out the door to face down a perfect domestic storm.