Harvey
in the pub, at my little table, yesterday’s paper screaming about Blair’s little love note to Bush — Tony, I’ll hold your coat while you blow up the world — a warm gin and tonic sweating like a guilty priest, and a tin of cashews gone soft because who gives a fuck. The country pretends
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
The List
I picked up the scrap of shopping-list paper from the kitchen counter, the one with the faded blue lines, and there it was — her handwriting, still the same after twenty wild years, looping and sure as the first time she wrote “I love you” on a napkin in that Mexican restaurant in Smith Street