They’re comparing how many people in their lives have died by suicide. John, the guy with tennis shoes whiter than his receding hairline, has lost one acquaintance. Pete with the fat wallet and Ray-Bans has lost two colleagues. And Mark with the beige fleece and flustered cheeks says he’s lost four best pals. John and Pete move down the pub booth like Mark has a cold they can catch. They all laugh. Behind the bar is a photo of a brewer in 1952 sticking his thumbs up. His eyes are black and white. I’m next to the exit drinking a pint of 7.5% ale because I couldn’t tell the smiling barman that I actually ordered half a pint, or how today was one of those days my skin doesn’t need me. Mark is walking to the toilet saying, “If I’m not back in 10 minutes, call the ambulance.” My fingers are twitching and I’m thinking about the cutlery my uncle left me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023