Description:

Wee Edmund was once asked why he's having a drink. "It's because I needed a refreshment!" isn't what he replied. 
He's sober, was the reason. How refreshing is that?

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Carp's The Day, Fast The Morrow

I used to live in a house, a while back. It was a very different from the other house that lived in a further while back. 
Both houses were also very similar, in that either was surrounded by other buildings, where people lived. Presumably still do. 

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Usually once a year, for a couple of days, some of those people would go out. Hit the streets, as they say. Hit the bars, as they do. 'Time for a drink' may not be what they chant. Drinks - lots of it - is what they want. 

How else can anyone stand any of it? 

 

I would not know. 

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A couple of days of Sodom, it's implied. Never mind. 

 

Fish is on the menu.

 

And soup. 

 

Floury thick. 

 

No fishsoup, though. 

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Diff'rent soups for diffrent groups.

 

That what they say?

 

Who says that?

 

What's wrong with you? I mean, seriously, you'll probably want that getting looked at. Or into. 

 

Either way, some of those wear masks for fear. Maybe others for shame. 

 

The lady might not appreciate your touching her boob, or catching too uncomfortably close a glimpse of what wraps it neatly to her chest. 

 

Or the gent, who frowns upon those getting near his precious junk. 

 

We all have something to protect. Something to preserve. Something to pervert?

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Some do. 

 

I guess. 

 

At least it would explain certain 'incidents'. 

 

Buggered about the others...

 

At end of the day, or night, or around the times those to intertwine, everyone goes home to sleep in their bed. Or somebody else's. Or maybe only half-way up the stair, in between two beds. 

 

Or in the alley.

 

Down the road.

 

And across the street. 

 

You've been drunk in the past. 

 

That doesn't mean you know how that works. 

 

Any of it. 

 

Not none of it. 

 

What does that leave us with?

 

Fear and shame masked away?

 

What's left?

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Dignity?

 

Sold off yonks ago.

 

Not to the highest bidder, mind you. 

 

Just a stranger.

 

In a bar. 

 

Someone just met. 

 

Someone who offered us a drink.

 

Someone who got the round in.

 

Hey, where'd they go?

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And who's paying for?

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When in Rome, alas, there's room for something.

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Room for one more - yeah, that was it.