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 fly slowly, unhurried, then muttered to himself, words echoing softly.

“£2 a pint between 2 and 5, don’t forget,” he said, almost arguing with himself.

a bit of snot glistened on his nose under the lights, unnoticed. he didn’t bother wiping it, just stood there figuring his next drink, doing the happy-hour arithmetic, the cheap booze run. a couple of soft chins, stubble rough with days-old crumbs, flat cap pulled low — the last echo of some sharper man he used to be, or only ever meant to be.

dark patches stained his trousers, telling their own quiet story. he swayed a little, talking numbers to the empty air, pints and pence adding up to another hour. I watched, drawn in: raw, unfiltered, a reminder that tomorrow could look a lot like today.

he didn’t notice me in the shadows.

some end up like this — alone in pubs, counting change for the next pint, nose running, stains spreading, cap tilted like a private joke nobody’s left to get. and some of us sit in the dark and watch, telling ourselves we’re separate, knowing one bad turn could put us right there in the monologue.

he finished his sums, wiped his nose on his flat cap hat, and shuffled toward the bar for another. I watched him go, and figured I’d seen enough of what might come, for one night.

cap pulled low like armour,
two quid a pint till five;
the long arithmetic.