Beneath Stars By Andrew Fowkes

We walk to the bar, kicking at cans, hands in pockets. No one stops us except the bouncer at the door. I remonstrate and put my hands up. I exclaim and cast looks of entreaty to the right and to the left — to my friends who are now walking in.

Later, I sit by a burning oil can, poking at it with a stick. I am alone in the chasm of night. My suit covered with stains.

The man at the bar was handsome, with a lantern jaw, and a grotesquely distended nose. I had told him this, previously, slapping him on the back and exclaiming that it was alarming that someone so handsome should smell through something so monstrous. I’d bought him drinks and encouraged him to pour them into his mouth. I’d asked him to appreciate my generosity.

My actions were just, and as I sit here, by the burning oil can, I feel that the stars confer their approval.

I see my friends walking down the street, kicking at the air, hands in pockets, as ever. The handsome man walks with them, with his handsome face. The oil can smokes in the pale morning air, and I pull at my suit.

The door of the bar is like a friendly open mouth.

© 2015 Andrew Fowkes

Andrew Fowkes lives in London but grew up on the north-west coast of England. His writing has been published in New Realm, D+Pad Magazine, and Litro Online.

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