Glue

I took a gulp out of my pint glass and simulataneously glanced across at you. You sucked on your cigarette and proceeded to blow a plume of smoke in my direction, making a whooshing sound as you did so, like an unsuccessful whistle.

'Just put your lips together and blow,' I said.

You said, 'What?'

I looked down at my pint glass. There wasn't a lot of beer left in it. I lifted my wrist so that my watch came into my line of vision thus saving me the effort of turning my head. It was late, but I fancied another pint. But then, what I fancy does not tend to be a particularly good measure of what is best.

'How's it coming on?' I had known you would ask me this eventually. 'Fancy another one?' I counter. 'Yeah, go on.' I downed the remainder of my pint and lumbered up to the bar. Within seconds I was back in position with lager reassuringly slopped on the table and dripping onto my thigh.

'How's it coming on?' My attempt at creating a diversion hadn't worked. 'Yeah, it's good.' I sucked the foam from the full glass and wiped my wet palm on my jeans, leaving a dark, moist patch.

'Can I see it?' I wouldn't meet your eyes and I wondered if you had noticed. My own eyes settled on a picture of a foxhunt above the fireplace. Do they really block the fox holes? If they didn't dress up like twats then maybe they wouldn't be so unpopular. You were still looking at me.

'Sure.' I exhaled and pressed my back teeth together before biting one side of my bottom lip. Holding this face and your gaze, I reached down into the space between my stool, the wall and the floor and picked up a crumpled supermarket bag which contained a wad of paper. I passed it across the table. It hung momentarily above the full ashtray as your face betrayed you with a uncharacteristic flicker of genuine surprise. You put out your hand and took the package from me. I felt like I had handed over my wayward child to a careworker. You removed the wad of paper from its flimsy plastic sheath with its promise of permanently low prices.

'You're not going to look at it now are you?' I realised I sounded desperate, shrill even.

'I've waited long enough!' you said with a hint of frostiness. I looked at my hands. My fingernails needed cutting. I wished I hadn't stopped smoking because it would have been a good time to light a cigarette. My eyes settled on your fag packet and I thought for one second that I might have one. My brain roared 'No!' and I didn't. You were not looking at me anymore. You were reading the first page. My heart started to pound. I suddenly felt drunk and the room seemed to move a few degrees on an imaginary axis. I held the table to steady both it and myself. You smiled as you read and I felt sick because I thought that you were thinking that I was a joke. My delicate raft of self-confidence which had been spinning in an eddy had, without warning, plunged over the top of the waterfall. You made that whooshing sound again just as I closed my eyes and went into freefall.

Quick, easy, clean and washable