I was on my fourth vodka by now, and the funeral service was there in my mind, but it didn’t hurt—
like noticing you had a stone in your shoe, but while you were sitting down rather than walking on it.
I thought that I probably ought to attempt a sausage roll at some point, or at least put a few in my bag for later,
but then I remembered that I had brought my new, tiny bag, into which I could fit, at most, two savory pastries.
I tutted, and shook my head. “What’s up?” said the barman. We hadn’t asked each other’s names; it didn’t seem necessary, somehow.
I slumped forward on my stool and stared, in clichéd fashion, into my glass.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said breezily. “I suppose I ought to have something to eat now, really.”
The barman, who had become less handsome as time had worn on, picked up my glass,
filled it back up with vodka and a dash of cola and returned it to me.
“No rush, eh?” he said. “Why not stay here and keep me company for a while longer?”
I looked around—the bar was still deserted. “You might need a little lie-down after this one, eh?” he said,
tapping my glass and leaning very close to me. I could see the enlarged pores on the sides of his nose, some of them filled with microscopic black dots.
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