I’m addicted to bad pubs like this one. There’s not one forgiving corner here amongst the reconstituted wood tables, lino and glass. Cold puddles of lager splash underfoot and against my forearm. The television’s always on, the bar staff always talking to their mates and my fellow drinkers are all thick limbed, hairless and tattooed. They have eyes like crocodiles: cold but never blinking.
I catch the frothy acid tang of piss as I order my own lager, I sit down with it and drink and wait. Drink and wait. Maybe in this bad pub I’ll get what I deserve.
Labels: flash fiction