‘The Rising Sun’ by Noelle Northstar
It was one of those conversations when hopes grew and dimmed like candlelight on a wall. He held her hand tenderly in a pub called The Rising Sun.
It seemed they had been through it all together, and he wore an expression of sincerity too old for his features, and his heart beat quicker than a hunted deer.
Was he on the way out? Where had that ambition which had captivated her gone? He had softened, comforted, and lost his grip.
He wore an expression of sincerity too old for his features, and his heart beat quicker than a hunted deer.
His desperation to keep her only hardened her resolve. But what could he do? He knew he was beyond the vanishing point on the road and his youth was gone. Next month he would be thirty, and he would be entering the decade alone.
Secreted away in his heart and mind, he had begun to think of a mortgage, and finding a home. Those sweet, gentle thoughts, so unfashionable to admit, must have seeped out after all.
His cheeks flooded crimson, as he recalled thinking: ‘The new couple at number nine’. He knew he was too battered for another foray into romances’ uncertain realm. Slowly he would retreat into himself, and there his once creative hands would grow barren and be stilled.
Those sweet, gentle thoughts, so unfashionable to admit, must have seeped out after all.
He drank his drink and looked away. Was there any trace of sympathy left in her for him? His heart pitied and then it was over.
She left with a majestic swirl of her long black coat, and his hunched shoulders curled further inwards. Life was on her side. It was a bitter divide.
He rolled his pint glass round with his fingers and swashed the remaining amber liquid this way and that before taking a final gulp. Soon, self-preservation and pride would kick-in, and he would go back to his one-bedroomed flat with cracks in ceiling.
His hunched shoulders curled further inwards. Life was on her side. It was a bitter divide.
But first. another drink. One for the road, as his parents had said. Carrying his sorrow on his shoulders he shuffled over to the bar, and said: ‘Same again, please’.
Gradually, fingers with tufts of hair just below the knuckles worked the white-handled pump and filled the empty glass once more. ‘There you go mate,’ said the bartender.
Taking his left hand into his ill-fitting patched sports jacket pocket, he went to pull out a note, but a hand came over the bar, rested on his wrist and patted it once. ‘No need this time, we have all been there.’
And perhaps that was the moment his pride took hold, for he nodded brusquely and returned to his stool at the raised table and looked into the bubbled glassed window.
A hand came over the bar, rested on his wrist and patted it once. ‘No need this time, we have all been there.’
The chatter behind his back muzzled into a murmur. The pub swelled as the office workers escaped their jobs and idled their hours away between the mahogany pillars.
Arching outwards, the bar shone beneath bulbs of golden light, which reflected off glasses waiting to be drank from.
His arms slid further forward onto the table and he drummed his fingers, perplexed by the indifference of others to his strife.
She would be out there now – he reflected – making her way to the underground station where she would board a train to her parents for the night. And there she would tell of what happened.
Arching outwards, the bar shone beneath bulbs of golden light, which reflected off glasses waiting to be drank from.
He remembered the first time he met the prospective in-laws; how he walked mud into the carpet with his boots and then trod on their dog’s tail. Comical at the time, but how those moments loomed large now like ugly spectres, as he imagined their voices saying: ‘You are well out of it. We never really liked him anyway.’
The pint was halfway down, when the door swung open and a couple walked in. They had just met, holding hands and smiling, convinced that this time… this time… this was it. Pain seared through his body, turning into rage, then resentment, until finally it settled on vengeance.
Pain seared through his body, turning into rage, then resentment, until finally it settled on vengeance.
They settled on a long table in the far corner, and sat with their heads craned forwards, smiling shyly, delighted.
He turned away and remembered her dark hair running over her shoulders, her angelic white skin, her deep red lips. And how he wished a solitary tear would run down her once familiar, warm cheeks for what what they had shared, as one of his own splashed into his pint.
He pushed his glass away and left through the doors. But the sun always rises.
Disposable Cam is a Scouse journalist. He is in the pub.
