The black stuff

It's raining. You're not at home. But despite this, I know you're wearing your green galloshes and your hair slicked back like you've walked off the set of Happy Days. I know you're sploshing down Shop Street, whistling softly to yourself, one hand stuffed in your pocket and the other trailing your jacket over your shoulder like you're doing it a favour. You love the rain, for the simple fact that everyone around you hates it. You always were a contrary fucker.

You're heading to Dunnes Stores to pick up a pair of those thick socks you like. Then you'll pick up a packet of fags at McCambridges; 20 Marlboroughs, just like the cowboys used to smoke. After that you'll mosey on down to Tigh Neachtain's to slurp on a pint or two. A quick pause between sips to wipe the ol Guinness mustache. A few clipped words about the weather with the barman.

You'll glance at your watch a few times and say to yourself “ah, feck it, one more and I'll head”. But you won't. Not just yet.

You see, you have a bone to pick with yourself about something. And you won't be able to get to the bottom of it in one hour, or two hours, or three. The regulars sitting up at the bar won't spell it out for you. Or the busker who walks into swap his coins for a couple of notes. The red head who asks you for a light hasn't a notion. No. It won't hit you until you slip your key into the door at 2am, fogging the glass on the door with the sour breath of all that black stuff. When you can't get the lock to turn, that's when you'll realise.