300 Oysters A Day

'Bon appétit.' said the man who came to stand next to me at the bar while I was trying to eat my tapas. He had a creepy aura and he stunk of cheap tobacco. I wasn't sure if he wanted to bum me or was just lonely with nobody to talk to. I seem to attract a lot of both types.

'Oh he does that well, doesn't he?' my new friend remarked in reference to the barman, who was opening oysters. ‘Great handwork,’ he added, licking his lips. This situation had buggery written all over it, but fortunately the bar man chipped in.

'Well I've been opening 300 oysters a day for the last 10 years.' The barman said this bashfully, but after a split second the weight of his words seemed to smack him in the face. He had spent the last 10 years opening oysters. 10 fucking years. Were these years well spent? Did he have regrets? Was this where he saw himself 10 years ago? He looked off into the distance as these thoughts washed over him.

'Bet it hurts your hand, doesn't it?' said the creepy guy, suggestively.

'It used to,' said the barman, still lost in his thoughts.

'It used to.'