Story unloaded and beer sunk, he asks me: Do you think I’ve done the right thing? [Pause]. Yes, I say, but not because it’s what he wants to hear. Because it’s true. There really is no point in being unhappy.

 

We sit for a few minutes in comfortable silence. There are difficult weeks ahead, I say, but you’ll get through them. And then there’ll be something else, something new, and you’ll feel better. He smiles, half-believing me. I cringe at how rehearsed my response sounds, as if I’ve lifted it from a film.

 

frothy dregs drained,

a glass

ready to be refilled

 

We’ll be here again, having this pint. Maybe I’ll be the one with the reddened eyes and sleep-starved skin. Maybe it’ll be him. But no matter which one of us it is, the other will be here. Buying the pints. Lending his ears.