The man in the pub’s mouth is talking about retiring. Grey stubble sits on a chin that’s taken plenty of knocks and his slip-on shoes have decided to get a taxi home safely tonight. His smile is a blank sheet of paper. His blue eyes catch mine and I’m 14 years old warming up for 90 minutes at centre back wondering if a girl will ever kiss my lips. He thanks me for keeping him company this afternoon and we exchange names. He says he’s never met a Carl with a C before and I decide to smile and not to tell him how he’s got your name but not your dead body.

Carl Burkitt 2024