Afternoon drink.

I place down my third drink, tap my fingers on the bar in time with your impatience, and I begin to feel it all closing in. I sit and glance around at the sagging skins and polluted lungs; years filled with nothing placed into a glass, and drank with gusto. As Empty conversations leap from scurvy sliced tongues, flow over my head in blurred rainbows; i watch them pop like bubbles; surplus submissions. And you continue to do all the talking as usual, about the heated seats in your B.M.W, your payments and re-payments, the way you lassoed that stripper on that last office party: pride in your fading eyes. We leave early, and on the way out, I throw down coins to the drunken tramp laid out side, and I realise I half understand that twinkle in his eye.