The trouble with a social conscience

At the bar, the busy, smiling barman says he’ll be with me in thirty seconds. Behind us, premiership football patrons stare at the TV on mute. Until Balotelli scores and parts of the air become blue mist.

I feel the kiss of something metallic on my calf and look down. A bespectacled man in a wheelchair doesn’t seem to realise he rode into my calf. It didn’t hurt or anything, but I wonder if he knows, like when someone steps on your foot and pretends that they don’t.

I instinctively take a step back to let him get served ahead of me. The barman beams his smile my way before turning it on him.  

“Another Jameson’s,” the man says not looking at anyone. “No ice this time.”

“After I serve this lovely lady, mate,” the barman replies.

The man looks me down to up. “I’m trying to catch the rest of the match,” he grumbles. His voice is heavy and low, as if it might need its own wheelchair.

“Gimme two seconds, Chris,” the barman says with practiced patience.

Chris catches my eyes. His annoyance is palpable. “You gonna be long?”

Irritability karate chops my previous thoughtful gesture. I’m gasping for a large house white. “I’ve not had a chance to order yet.”

“You being funny?” he says. It isn’t a question.

“No, I’m not,” I reply. “I’ll have a mojito, please?”

The barman gathers the ingredients and takes a considered approach to my cocktail. Chris watches him with a look I can’t read.

Now I feel peeved. And bad.