Marks

Marks are forming on the bar. I twist and spin and turn my glass around in them, making eight-shapes with the water. My glass is half full.

A man bumps into me. He is oblivious, and has clearly had too many drinks. I do not push him back. He will be gone in a minute. Just like the dozen other people who have bumped into me tonight. That does not bother me. I sit at the bar with the purpose of meeting people. I also sit at the bar to avoid people. The bar is a special place, a unique dividing line between hyper-social and apathetic, a line you can just about straddle and maybe balance on for a while if you are lucky or highly skilled at being both social and not.

I sit at the bar to straddle the strange divide between social and not social. People bump into me. Some of them are nice and calm. Some of them are drunk and horrible.

Slowly I become more drunk and horrible.


As I slowly descend into alcohol-fuelled irritations and angers, I fantasise about the many ways in which I will exact my revenge. I look for the darts, the empty bottles, the chairs. I have nefarious ideas. Someone bumps into me again. He seems nice, and not drunk. My anger subsides and I try to look composed. He orders his drink and walks away again. I try to see my reflection in the chrome behind the bar. It is not easy to see, but I think I look tired. Maybe a little angry, but not dangerous. There are wrinkles around my eyes. It is the only way you can tell I am not that young anymore. My glass is empty.


I fumble with my bicycle keys and do not turn on the bike lights. I fumble with the bike. I stumble onto it, and I blunder home. I park my bike in a sloppy way that I will certainly resent in the morning, and I fumble with the house keys for a little while.

Inside I feel safe. I try to masturbate for ten minutes but I am too drunk. I drink a glass of water.