Hersch waits a second, just in case anyone fancies teeing up the punchline but they don’t so he carries on regardless.
“I still made him mop the floor though, fucked if I was doing it myself after that fucking performance!”
A few days ago, a porter had gone a touch postal and Hersch had tackled him. It was an incident so ripe with irony that he feels the need to acknowledge it before anyone else does.
“Shit, I wave knives around and threaten to kill myself all the time. Where’s my parade?”
His audience laugh intermittently and disperse, Hersch decides to jot down the anecdote before retiring it for a while at least. Alone again, a great blue ache yawns in his stomach and he remembers the girl, her eyes pregnant with tears. Blood seems to rush to his ears as he checks his phone.
At this exact moment when a billion events are shaping the totality of human endeavour, each individual action altering the face of all things forever, the one he’s hoping for doesn’t come. His inbox is empty save some spam about hotels in Ibiza and an unsolicited job offer.