The lights were red when it came up. About Him not drinking anymore. ‘It’s been six Months,’ he said, he wasn’t sure how many Months he’d been waiting for her to bring it Up herself. Neither of them looked at Each other on the well-known roundabout. ‘You’d think you were an alcoholic,’ she Said when she knew she had to say something. He glanced at the kids in the rear view Mirror and side eyed her as she looked The other way, away from the oncoming Traffic. Not drinking was as moreish as Swaying gently with the room, as going to Different off licenses for different Wine, every single night. ‘I don’t like Labels,’ he said in the middle of the shame, Gently raising the clutch as the light hinted Green and wondered about the wasted Time and the man he might have been.
Before The Miscarriage
They were carrying on as normal, whatever that was Anymore. When they’d met for outside coffee, no Decision was reached. They laughed and they Laughed about what they were like, besides it was Different, in your thirties, when you didn’t get Any cards and that was the decision in itself. She drove to his on Friday, they had a kind of History, the taxi didn’t ask, he knew where They were going. He always drank quickly till he Was sure of the destination, she was taking It easy, but a few wouldn’t hurt at this stage. When he went for his fourth she nodded at the third Swimming at the bottom of her first. Lager to his Bitter, the barmaid didn’t ask, ‘I’ll bring hers over When the barrels been changed’. Poker faced and Empty handed, he absently mentioned, she Should take it slower, in her condition. He Looked dead on, a gulp in his mouth when the silence Took hold, the silence he’d know anywhere in the World. Seconds skipped to hours, missing out Minutes, till she came to the table with that Lady’s Glass. Calm was restored, they erupted at his Failed joke, the unknown ice was broken at last.
Bio: Patrick Slevin lives in Stockport. He has been writing poems and stories for many years.