Flat Cap Sums
I sat in the corner booth, sipping a warm pint that tasted faintly stale, watching him across the dim pub like he was the main attraction. he was mid-60s, easily. the place was quiet, a few scattered patrons like shadows, him alone by the bathroom door like he’d lost track of time. he zipped his
Neptune’s Crown
my daughter pointed at it through the green murk and said, “Look, Daddy, Neptune’s crown.” it was just a goddamn hubcap off a Ford Mondeo, once chrome-bright and spinning proud on some salesman’s ride, half-shiny even when the rest of the car was coughing rust. one day the clips gave up — like everything else