"No, you're the one who's really on the front lines of human depravity here. That's a tough job." Jim had never really had a job that was truly obnoxious in that way; the closest he'd come was dealing with impatient assholes on the drive-thru line at Tim Horton's, the summer after he started university. Only for one year—subsequently he'd admitted to himself that scraping cowshit off the stalls at home was better than dealing with people who thought they deserved their double-double thirty seconds ago.
"What would you rather be doing?" he asked her. He was forgoing the coffee because caffeine reacted badly with his meds, causing a white-knuckled, jaw-clenching freakout that was intensely unpleasant, and he'd thus fallen out of the habit of even missing it. "If it could be anything, I mean."