pranks of young men and young women who play together.
PAGE 1.
In a dimly lit brown bar, a blues band plays. The bar, wooden and dusty, with memories etched into the joints, as beer pulled and drunk, men shout and smoke.
Tattoos on arms and short, long haircuts fringe eyes that miss nothing and see a blur of beards and stubble.
Conversations reveal the occasional lie, particularly about the past.
Concern for self image, egos colliding - coldly and brutally through oil, leather and sweat.
Eye contact is scarce. The city look and feel.
Small fishes in little ponds - the larger pond spreading its protective wing around the boundaries - taste is required and teased out persistently - relentlessly prizing open the cage that people hide in.
The body starts to shake - bones rattling against tightening skin.
Straightening your back against the wall, slumped on a dirty carpet, music scraping around the edges - clear and tentative.
Smiling faces - plain and without joy - not real joy yet not forced.
Separate conversations and frail feelings but still no delight, only clinical, boastful remarks about the glory days.
Tomorrow.
The city streets reflect pathetic yellow lights, buildings sticky with grime and smoke, windows and tatty curtains and stripped doors.
Shop windows.
The air, fragile and hard.
Atmosphere - a city centre convulsing after a day of speed. Shattering grinds of taxi cabs, erratic driving and the fearful stabs of cigar smoke clogging lungs.
And then the walk home.
A church yard, noisy party and drunk drivers.
Conversation not forced, humorous and laid back.
So you see it can be done, even fleetingly.
The stillness of bodies lying side by side.
Sleep.
Steve Coel
An 11.59 Publication
An 11.59 Publication
