Mark Pajak, 25 April 2018
Last orders. I put my cloth to a misty wineglass and twist the shine in like a lightbulb.
At the end of my bar, a girl. Maybe twenty. Her back turned on her pint, and a man’s hand
spilling a powder. A hiss from an envelope like a slow fuse. Her lager’s fine chains of fizz
suddenly shake until all the liquid is the white tail of a rattlesnake. But it’s late. So I hold up