She tells him he is on the brink of failure.
He rolls his eyes and says, Tell me something I don't know, love. It's been the story of my life.
He picks up his pint, drains it and plonks it down on the counter.
Do you want another one? she asks.
Would you serve me if I did? he replies.
She looks at him. He knows what he looks like: older than he should be, greying hair, yellowing skin, bloodshot eyes, and a scar across his face, where he fell over in the toilets the other week.
Probably not, she says.
Then, I'll go, he sniffs.
He pulls on his coat, slaps some money on the bar, not bothering to ask how much it is: he knows, he always orders the same thing, and the prices haven't changed in years. One of the reasons he drinks in this shithole.
Night, love, she says, as the bar door kisses his arse on the way out.
It is damp and cold out. He sniffs again, pulls his coat around his neck and stomps his way home.
...
