“Weekend plans, fella?!”

“Well-”

“One too many beers for me, I imagine! You know what I’m like!”

“…Well, most of it will be spent second–guessing myself, I imagine. Taking things too personally and pushing people away. I’ll pop out for a bit, but I’ll be looking over my shoulder. I’ll smile and nod and make a joke or two, but I’ll regret everything I’ll say. I’ll blame myself for the weather, the traffic, anything that derails the fun of others. I’ll hold on to the smallest comment and push it down and down in an attempt to silence the fear despite its voice getting louder and louder with every push. I imagine… You know what I’m like.”

“Cool, have a good one fella!”

© Carl Burkitt 2016

The other day I met a man called Fang. He had a full set of round teeth. There was not a single spiky gnasher in his gob. It was one of those ironic nicknames, apparently. I didn’t find it funny. I still don’t, to be honest. He looked rather unkempt. His hair had potential. There was just so much of it – a solid straight line atop his forehead. But I got the impression didn’t enjoy washing it. His dress sense was one I could only describe as ‘Earthquake survivor’. The great unwashed. I told him all of this, by the way. Later in the evening his girlfriend said Fang didn’t like me. She did though, I can assure you. I told him that, too.

© Carl Burkitt 2016