i
… with dirt twixt his teeth.
I give him a once over
pour him a gin and tonic.
He asks for a triple. I make him a double.
Last shot’s mine.
I ask if he knows how it got there.
The dirt, mate.
He isn’t sure he remembers.
He worries its been thur’
as long as he’s had teeth.
Holds his glass in his left
feg in his right
looks at peace.
Makes me want to scream.
ii
… smelling smoke.
There's a symptom of a stroke, so.
Aye. Depends. How long has this been
allowed to go on for?
Hm. Fair.
I look at him closer to see
a bullet hole in his coat. Just
a little above his heart.
Wallet, he says. I nod
as though this is a logical thing
to happen to a man like him.
His skin is burnt to a crisp.
iii
… dressed head to toe in green.
I’ve never fared well with his kind.
Too nauseating. They’re like smoke, they are,
I tell ye nai. Can’t trust a man like that.
Can’t hold him in yer hands long.
But he’s not here for me to trust him.
He wants wine.
I mean really, who orders red wine in a bar like this?
His left hand twitches when I hand him
the glass. He manoeuvres himself awkwardly
to take it in his right instead
and the bar feels distinctly too
small with him in it.
Stroke, says I.
Nerve damage, he says.
Mortars?
I wish.
iv
… and I think that he has
finally been domesticated. Or at least
he's learning. Learning how to sit still
and say please and thank you and
pull his punches. Learning that
I won’t pull mine.
He politely pushes me from the bar
and pulls - with shocking ease -
a perfect Guinness
from these unruly taps
asks (he’s getting better at asking) me to try it.
Sobs like a baby when I do.
I ruffle his hair
and drive him home.
Comments