Daz came into Kieran’s shop at ten to ten, just before the shutter came down. Milk, bread, a bag of crisps he’d eat in the van.
“Alright, Daz?”
“Always, mate. You?”
“Can’t complain.”
They both said it the way you say bless you when someone sneezes. Automatic. Daz tapped his card. Kieran bagged the bread. Neither of them looked up.
Then the card machine beeped. Declined.
A small silence. Daz laughed, a bit too loud. “Wrong card. Hang on.” He fished out another one. It went through. He picked up the bag.
He was at the door when Kieran said, “Daz.”
“Yeah?”
Kieran was leaning on the counter, looking at the till. He looked tired in a way Daz had never let himself notice.
“When I said I can’t complain,” Kieran said, “I was lying. I could complain for about a week.”
Daz stood in the doorway. The street was dark behind him. He could have made a joke. He had one ready — he always has one ready.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “Me too, mate.”
They didn’t have a big conversation. Kieran pulled the shutter halfway and they stood outside for ten minutes in the cold, talking about nothing much, and a little bit about money, and a little bit about sleep. Two men who’d said “alright” to each other maybe a thousand times, saying something true for once.
“Same time tomorrow?” Kieran said, when they’d run out.
“Yeah,” said Daz. “Same time tomorrow.”