4. Three Shots of Vodka

The burn follows two seconds behind vodka's path down throat. A glance back to your partner suggests that their parents are introducing them to an attractive someone-or-other. You order two-point-four standard drinks of cocktail. You shake Al’s hand and wish his marriage a blessed future before he continues with his social rounds.

Rumour is that Jon Butler is playing a show on green space half-a-click down the beach. You confirm this by heading outside onto balcony. It has become a default smoker's area, nobody respecting the 'no glass outside' sign. Frank and Chris lean on the railing, contemplating a jetty.

Chris: 'You'd think the noise would drive the fish away.'

Frank: 'It'd bring in the stoner fish.'

Chris puts on a voice: 'I know it's bait on a hook but it looks soooo good.'

Frank plays along: 'Don't do it, Jimmy, don't - fuck, did you just see that man? Jimmy's gone, man, he's gone.'

Laughter amongst themselves before they notice you. They watch for your first move with social unease in their eyes. You sink half your drink. They imitate.

They loosen, unspoken conspiracy amongst you. The gap left in conversation, by the purportedly forgotten, is filled with memories from the buck’s night.

Chris explains: 'Drinking contest. Both downed a bottle of scotch.'

Frank, smug: 'Yet only one of us held it down.'

Chris smiles self-deprecating: 'Can't quite relive the glory days.'

You say: 'Sounds like glory might be subjective, here.'

Frank: 'I'll drink to that.'

Chris: 'You would.'

They join in your laughter: they like you, you are in.

James corals the smokers: 'Speeches are starting.'

Cigarettes are finished and butts pitched like tracer rounds onto sand-dune vegetation. You scan the room. Your partner across is in corner tête-à-tête with the same attractive someone-or-other. You have coincidentally stopped in front of the bar.

You:

return to your seat.

proceed to get insensibly drunk.