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It was easy to unwittenly isolate one-self from the rest of the human race. It happens over several long years for many or from as long as they could remember, but for Andrew he could pinpoint it to that one chrismas with his twin sister. That big arguement over- over something or other. It was building up inside since their parents were killed five months ago, a grinding tension that finally boiled over on the worse possible day, at the worse possible time, in front of her kid and husband. It was better when they didn't hear from each other, didn't make contact, waiting for the other to call first. Christmas was for families, maybe partly to be thankful with what you had. A happy family. They shouldn't have invited him.

He didn't start it. Not really. She was wrong about- about everything. All of it. Maybe he did over react, a little, but she wouldn't drop it, those snide comments, sounded harmless to an outsider of course, she had been that way since they were kids. He was the one who always got into trouble; even if it wasn't his fault, but besides the normal sibling rivally they were close. Their mum usually said they were as stubbern as each other after breaking up another arguement, It usually started over nothing, and then forgotten. Sometimes though, it wasn't forgotten. It couldn't. Not in this case. She was wrong.

If Andrew really thought about everything and was honest with himself, he may have admitted that his problems started subtly before that xmas. He found himself less interested with going out, didn't fancy it. It wasn't that he didn't like to drink himself mindless, quite the opposite it was nice to relax into a drunken bliss, he just started to feel like an outsider. Couldn't muster the effort to join in with the jokes, the talk, the bragging. He felt he was somewhere else most of the time and left behind with the rest. They had wives, kids and planning to move away with nicer homes and better job oppertunities. The calls to come out for a drink dwindled until his old buddies were just pleasent memories and cards that wished him 'merry christmas and hope to see you in the new year'.

His life was becoming mondane. Steadily slotting into a fixed routine, or as fixed as a chef's routine could be. Working all day til midnight, then usually slept til the next shift at midday when it would begin again, unless he had a pick-me-up before sleeping, which were becoming more and more frequent. Andrew couldn't really imagine himself in any other career, cooking was the only thing he had ever been good at and he started it before it became popular on TV. He bossed people about, that didn't come naturally and the assistants and waitresses didn't like him for it and no doubt among other reasons. They never invited him out for a drink and he never bothered asking to come along. It was a small restuarant, barely keeping its head above water; they had to lay a few waitresses off. He was glad he just got paid to cook rather then run the place, he could never manage with numbers too well and didn't want another reason for the staff to hate him. Not that he cared any more.

A long swig of vodka went down nicely after a stressful shift. Their potswasher called in sick an hour before he started, the second time this week (and it was only wednesday), the chef's only assistant sliced off his finger, and insisted to go straight to hospital immediatly, ignoring Andrew's helpful suggestion of keeping it in the freezer until his shift was over and a waitress quit with something about sexual harrassment claims about the manager. Oh boy.

He took another long swig.

Andrew picked up a newspaper from the sofa, it was dated last week but in the jobs section an advertisement was circled messily. It had always been on his mind to find another job, but he never got up the balls to change. It was less hassel just to stay, to plod on in a restaurant he didn't like with people he couldn't stand. Now he sensed that the place was about to sink. He could see the iceburg looming up ahead weeks ago, but tried to pretend it wasn't there until he could reach out and touch it. Now like a rat he was going to jump ship before it sucked him down too.

Another swig.

A celebratey chef on the telly droned on about healthy eating and wotnot, Andrew turned it off in disgust, casting his small flat into a familar gloomy darkness. It was apparent by the dead plant in the corner that the heavy curtains were never opened, and he forgot to water it. The chef slumped down in the couch, light headed from standing, not bothering to turn on a light; not that it would've made a difference with the bottle neck not finding his mouth anyhow. He cursed and stumbled to the neglected kitchen fumbling for the switch, the sudden bright light blinded him enough to collapase over the dirty sink. He considered his options; stay working at the restaurant he hated and watch the water swirl around his ankles or phone up this lab place and see if they were still looking for kitchen help here or abroad. A desicion was made as his stomach emptied itself into the sink; he should've learnt by now to never eat his own cooking.

He took another long swig to settle his ache and only made it as far as the doorframe before stumbling and crawled to the couch before blacking out into a deep dreamless sleep.