Packed Lunch

Paul was eating his sandwiches opposite me. The smell of egg mayonnaise was offensive, as was its collection at the sides of his mouth. In our office, we had to take a staggered lunch break as ‘the phones needed to be manned at all times’. This law meant that Paul and I spent an hour alone together each day. If I was less bothered, I would have taken my lunch at my desk; however, everyone else ate in the staffroom and I feared judgement.

Paul was the same age as me and we’d been in the same year at school. However, this brought nothing and we generally spent the hour in silence, both staring into our phones, looking at comments and pictures. The hour followed the same format. Paul brewed the kettle and I warmed my soup. We made our teas, sat opposite each other, I watched him eat whilst my soup cooled, I ate my soup and then we scrolled. Both of us used the bathroom at some point and we went back to work when Sandra and Keith appeared.

Watching Paul today administered a larger dose of doom than usual. The combination of his jaw slapping around the wet egg, the stench, the residue, the staring at the screen and the lack of a relationship after two years of proximity, pushed me to the wall. I broke a little.

‘Paul, fuck me!’

‘What?! What’s happened?!’

‘I’m looking at you here and I’m imagining what I look like. Fucking hell Paul!’

‘What are you talking about? We’re eating our lunch.’

‘And saying nothing, doing nothing, being nothing! Every day, you hit the kettle, I pour the soup. You know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, we come to work and have lunch. You want to talk more?’

‘Yes and no. It just affects me that this hour is so flat. Does it not you?’

‘We’ve found our routine. At least I thought we had.’

‘Yeah, that’s the problem. This is how we function best, in silence. This is how we feel most comfortable. Does it not make you feel annoyed or inadequate or something bad?’

‘Not really mate, I think you might need a holiday. Shake it up.’

‘Yeah, sorry Paul.’

‘No problem.’

Paul went back to the eggs, his ideas reminded me why we sat in silence. He was the type of man who was willing his face to drop so that he could justify his lethargy and limited ambition. Having married a girl from our school at the age of twenty five (another revolting dullard) he had sent out a clear message that life was not to be chanced or made interesting.

I looked down at my soup and began to ladle the sustenance at my face before deciding to forget the facade. I began to hum the tune from ‘The Great Escape’. Paul looked up from his phone but returned to it when he’d identified the noise. I made it louder. Paul looked up again, turning over his hands to reveal his palms. I ignored him and started to sing the tune using ‘la’s’ and ‘da’s’. He finally cracked and used words to investigate.

‘Hey, Pete! Peter!’

I stopped.

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why are you doing that?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Singing that nonsense?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, it’s a bit annoying though.’

‘So is working here.’

‘No it’s not… What are you talking about? Can you stop doing that anyway?’

‘No problem.’

I then rose to my feet, throwing my soup spoon across the room into the sink. It rattled against the metal, the noise encouraging action. Paul looked at me, flat skin wrapped around an empty skull.

‘Peter, come on, I’m trying to have my lunch.’

‘Yeah, are you Paul? I’m trying to have my life. Imagine that? I’m trying to avoid repeating the same hour I’ve had for the last two years. I’m trying to avoid watching you sit in silence, imbuing the robotic obedience of the majority which ensures that work exists and we have to act like fuck wits.’

‘Come on now Pete, what’s wrong with you?! You’re not here to go mad, your here to work, you know this! Keep this going and I’ll have to speak to Tom in HR. You can’t speak to me like this!’

I grinned at the fool and jumped backwards onto the sofa behind me. It was a risk but it paid off. I then undid the button on my trousers and threw them to my ankles. I did the same with my boxer shorts. I looked down on Paul and he looked up to me and my cock.

‘Ha! You looked at it Paul. You looked at my cock!’

‘You’ve gone mental Pete! What the fuck!’

‘A profanity! Finally, a dose of unprofessionalism! Nice one Pauly!’

I made my move, throwing my body across the gap, I landed horizontally across Paul’s torso. It felt like I’d pulled off a high quality wrestling move. I proceeded to rub my bare cock on his chest. He’d hit his limit. Wrapping his right arm under my neck and over my shoulder, and his left arm between my legs, he picked me up and dropped me back to my sofa. With a good look of anger, he proceeded to throw his fists into my chest, directing his last swing at my jaw. I was elated.

‘Nice one Pauly! Nice one! Come on you limited fuck! Let’s have what’s really inside!’

‘You’re fucking mad Pete! You’re a cunt!’

He stepped back to his seat and retucked his shirt. I pulled my trousers up and headed for the toilet to piss. On my return he searched for reasons.

‘What was that about Pete?!’

I sat on my sofa and looked at him blankly.

‘Come on Pete, why did you do that?! I’ve worked with you for two years and you’ve never done that.’

‘I could say the same to you. You beat me Paul. You’ve never done that.’

‘Yeah, but you got your cock out! Your cock?!’

‘Yeah, I felt like these lunchtimes had become a little flat. These emotions, your confusion and hatred, my unpredictable aggression, it’s added something. Don’t you think?’

‘You’re mental.’

‘Yeah, so are you.’

Paul sighed and went to the toilet. I watched him leave, knowing he’d never understand. He watched a scene and appreciated what was shown, unable to grasp the subtext.