Through a haze of menthol-infused
Cigarette smoke
I see his head bobbing back and forth
With the basic rhythms
Of the music in his mind.
Friday night and it’s his birthday
And he loses himself in the murky liquid
That pretends to hide in the bottle on the shelf.
He who communicated clearly an hour ago
Can barely slur a sentence together now
And the floor is sticky with the
Richelieu that cascaded through the space between his lips
And his glass.
But it’s Friday night and it’s his birthday
And he can drink - and smoke - if he wants to.
He’s a good bloke, actually.
He’s a good bloke.
(Nodding, agreeing, more drinking, raising of glasses.)
Happy birthday to him - he’s a good bloke.
But my jersey reeks of cigarette smoke
And I want to go home.
(Coughing, heaving, lurching, groping for a bucket.)
He’s a good bloke, honestly.
(Rolling of eyes.)
He’ll be a good bloke in the morning.