Dimmed lights. Smoke. Rock music flowing from the speakers. Dark wooden benches and huge tables.
A truly huge pint of beer in front of us, covering someone's writing on the worn-out wood.
Our closest friends around us.
The place is a sea of long hairs, black clothes, spikes, chains and loud voices.
You look at them. You try to follow the conversation.
You smile at their jokes and make witty remarks.
Your attention sometimes drifts to the decorations around us.
You think the fake spider-webs are a nice touch.
I'm looking across the pub.
There they are - behind a table at the other end of the room.
That zombie of a man is trying to look alive.
He holds her. He smiles. He kisses her.
All because we're there.
We are the only reason for him to try and look human.
But you and I - we know.
Tomorrow she'll call.
Tomorrow she'll come to us again.
Tomorrow she'll be ours again.
She knows it's just a show. Just a play he puts up.
That's why she keeps coming to us.
You take out a cigarette and light it.
I place a highlighter and a piece of paper in your hands.
I force you to listen to my dictation.
We write the fucking bastard a poem he'll never read.