The Camel
Christmas again, Jesus, another one. London’s East End. her heels stab the wet pavement like they’re trying to kill it, clack-clack, clack-clack, some secretary’s last fuck-you to the day. everybody running for the Underground or the pub, same difference, heat, noise, cheap beer that tastes like rust and lament. peanuts in cloudy glasses, napkins soaked
The Orford Ghoul
I was hunkered down in my usual booth at the Orford, the one they used for Tina and Bobby, deep in the dim corner where the light never quite arrives. Tonight I skipped the usual cheap shandy and ordered a few large dirty vodkas, straight, no ice to soften the truth. It went down like