Extreme Danger to Life, Work Tomorrow

By Matthew Parish

Sunday 1 November 2026

I have brought my laptop to a bar in Kharkiv because I intend to get some work done. This is the first error of the evening, and the only one for which I can claim exclusive responsibility.

It is Sunday. The bar smells of old cigarette tobacco and hard liquor, with that musty undertone acquired by establishments in which several generations of customers have attempted to improve their circumstances without opening a window. Somewhere behind me, a pretty woman in an approximation of Irish traditional costume is singing in English. Her outfit suggests that Ireland has been described to the management over the telephone.

She has a good voice. I would be better placed to appreciate it if I were not trying to finish a paragraph, although the paragraph itself is providing increasingly little justification for my loyalty.

Beside me are two very drunk soldiers. Scars run across both their faces, catching the light when they turn towards the bar. I do not ask about them. There are questions a stranger has no business introducing between drinks, especially when the answers are already partly visible.

Their immediate concern is tequila. Mine is that they have mistaken my vodka for it. One reaches for my glass with the confidence of a man collecting property whose ownership has never been disputed. I explain. He examines the glass, then me, then the glass again. His companion assists by offering an opinion which does not appear to resolve anything.

We arrive at a friendly settlement. I retain the vodka, and they obtain more tequila. For a few seconds I entertain the possibility of returning to work.

The barmaid is beautiful, half undressed and apparently comfortable at a temperature which the rest of us have dressed to resist. Her bright red lipstick gives her pouting lips the precision of a carefully painted warning sign. She listens to the soldiers, leans forward, pours, and places fresh drinks before them with the practised economy of someone who has already had this conversation several times tonight.

One of the soldiers makes an expansive gesture. The tequila lands across my laptop. Whatever he intended to explain has acquired a practical demonstration.

There is a peculiar intimacy to watching a drink enter a keyboard. Until that moment the machine contains your work, your correspondence and an unreasonable number of open tabs. Suddenly it contains Mexico.

I lift it, and tequila runs from one corner onto my trousers. The soldier looks at the computer with wounded surprise, as though it has moved beneath his glass deliberately. He apologises. His companion apologises. I say that it is all right, an assertion for which I possess no evidence whatsoever.

The barmaid supplies napkins. There are never enough napkins for this sort of event. They are designed for the modest ambitions of condensation and lipstick, and we are asking them to undertake a major recovery operation.

While I blot the keyboard, the phones begin. The noise is sharp enough to cut through the singing, the conversation and the small private calculations I am making about replacement costs. Several handsets screech together; others join a moment later, distributed around the room like an orchestra whose musicians have developed a bitter professional disagreement.

“Extreme danger to life,” announces my telephone. For once, it has sent a notification which cannot reasonably be accused of exaggerating its own importance.

One soldier checks his phone. The other turns his over. The barmaid glances down, then finishes pouring. Behind us, the singer holds her place in the song.

Nobody appears to have mistaken the warning for good news. There is a pause, a few looks, a brief adjustment in the room. Then conversation resumes, somewhat louder because the phones are still going.

I am standing with a wet laptop in my hands, waiting for someone else to make a decision which will relieve me of making my own. The singer begins another verse. Her professional obligations, at least, remain clear.

It would be convenient to turn everyone here into an example of something. Courage, fatalism, exhaustion, defiance: there is a respectable selection available, and a writer with a deadline can generally fit a roomful of strangers into whichever one best suits the paragraph.

But one soldier is trying to find me a dry patch of bar. The other is explaining, with immense seriousness, how to save the computer. Neither has volunteered to represent the national character. They have spilled a drink and are trying to help.

I switch the machine off. This attracts approval from the small committee which has formed around the damage. Someone offers another napkin. The barmaid moves a glass out of the danger area, which has expanded considerably since I first sat down.

Her lipstick leaves a red crescent on the rim of her own glass when she takes a sip of water. Then she goes back to serving liquor. The soldiers accept another round with the gratitude of men whose difficulties have finally attracted an effective response.

The tobacco smell hangs in the warm air. The singer smiles towards a table which has begun to accompany her. One of the soldiers laughs, and for a moment his face changes so completely that I see how young he is.

My phone warns me again. I acknowledge it with my thumb. This feels like a pitiful response to extreme danger to life, but the interface offers limited opportunities for a more substantial one.

Outside this room, the danger has its own movements and timetable. Inside, somebody wants the bill, somebody wants another song, and I would like the tequila to stop dripping onto my shoe.

Tomorrow these people will have things to do. I have things to do. That was the reason for bringing the laptop: a little work on Sunday evening, a slight advantage over Monday morning. Now the machine is propped open on a bed of napkins, receiving the kind of anxious attention I should probably be giving the warning on my phone.

The soldier nearest me raises his fresh tequila carefully, making sure I have seen the improvement in his handling. I move my vodka a little farther away. We settle back into our quiet Sunday evening, Kharkiv style, while the woman in Irish costume sings in English and the phones compete for our attention.

Monday, having heard none of our excuses, will expect us as usual. I can already imagine explaining that the work is late because my computer spent Sunday evening drinking with the army.