Balloon animals

She sat down next to me, wheezing and coughing like she was about to hack up a lung. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked as I lit another cigarette.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Can’t we use one of those pumps for these damn balloons?”

“No, this is a fucking craft,” I snapped.

“How can you do this job and still smoke?” she asked.

“I have to smoke after being around all those snotty little shits.”

“This is a 50-year-old’s birthday party,” she said.

“When you’re as old as me, they all seem young,” I muttered. Truth is, I was so pilled out, I had no idea where I was or how old anyone was, including myself.

“God, I hate this job,” I quietly farted out of my mouth.

“At least the tips will be good on this one,” she said, looking at me with those tired eyes.

“Tips?” I asked, blinking slowly. “This job’s tipped?”

“Oh, um, yeah. I guess I forgot to tip you on the last few,” I said. “I’ll tip you out on this one and moving forward, but I can’t tip you on the ones we’ve already done.”