At table forty, two old farts lean against pints with handles. Their corner is dark and filled with the colours of dried leaves. One has a suit sharp from 1957. The other has a bat-wing jumper that was stolen from the 80s. I have a glass with no handle filled with beer brewed across the river but I’m the colour of jealousy. Their certainty is a skeleton that holds the world in place. As the second pint goes down they stop using words and start using tone of voice and body language; they’re fizzing with anger and cursing sparks of light. Their rage flickers and pushes away the group of women and a baby at the next table. The men do not notice these friends go in search of another table or the fact I no longer envy their certainty.
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