---

It stood there in front of me, on the table. It was pure black with a white creamy top. It looked like it would taste sweet, and would quench your thirst but it didn’t. It was bitter and drier than most drinks. I suppose it was like an acquired taste. You had to keep trying it to like it, like mustard or something. They warned me about these moments before, but I never really listened as much as I should have. At the meetings and all that. Flashes of missed opportunities rolled around my head, flashes of tired mornings, of jobs and friends lost, of girlfriends that move on while I seemed to move backwards or just stayed frozen, stuck to the spot, flashes of arguments that surfaced over nothing, flashes of embarrassment, flashes of another hangover, of resentment, flashes of more embarrassment and pain. They laughed and patted each other on their backs and shoulders. They talked about football like it was a global concern, and the man that brought me the drink didn’t know, sure it’s only the one. One wouldn’t kill you. Not knowing that in my case one would lead to more, which could lead to hours and even days of drinking, that turned to weeks, months, then possibly years and so yeah, in fact maybe one would kill me. But you could never say that, because they wouldn’t understand, so you just made up an excuse about headaches or driving, even though you took the tram this morning.

The lights in the bar seemed to dim as the sky turned dark, that warm feeling, that feeling were doubts and anxiety are thrown by the wayside, that feeling was only an arms length away. One of the lads dropped a pint, it was getting sloppy already and a bitterness hung in the air until it was mopped up. The booze stood in front of me, magnetic. I made my excuses, nods and goodbyes, palming my pockets for imaginary car keys. There was more taps on the back and shoulders. My weirdness was forgotten as people were more concerned with themselves, their own boozing, their own comfort. The door was heavier than it looked. The street cold but it felt good, and I felt alive again. The cold air waking me up, slapping me back into reality, tearing me from the cosiness of the pub. 

I walk confidently, not feeling the cold as much as I should have, like a weight was lifted.

---

Declan Geraghty is a working class writer and poet from Dublin. He’s had poetry published in Shanghai Poetry Lab, Militant Thistles and the Brown Envelope Book. His latest short story featured in Lumpen London issue 11. He has won a mentorship with Words Ireland, and their national mentoring program for new writers. He’s recently won a scholarship place with The Stinging Fly Play It Forward Programme, and been awarded a mentorship with Skylight 47 Poetry.