YOU

It’s after eleven.  You go in the first dark bar you see.  The wooden stool scrapes on the floor as you sit down and order.  You hope it will settle the shake in your hands and the white noise in your head.  You sip quickly and order another.  You slump forward as the tension eases away in the flood.  You look around and taking off your coat you fold it carefully.  You scoop some nuts from a bowl into your hand and tip them into your mouth.

     The TV on the wall shows rolling news.  Reporters wear body armour over pastel shirts and dusty soldiers wear sunglasses.  You’re jealous of how far away they are.  You check your phone.  Eighteen missed calls.  You order again.  You pick up the bar menu but don’t read it.  It’s nice in here you decide, quiet.  You want to stay longer.  Stay here all day.  Your wedding is at one.