The pub is dark, save for the neon signs behind the liquor shelf. It’s been closed for an hour, and the two of us sit at the bar like old times. It isn’t old times though, and I need to remember that, because I’m the one who fucked us seven ways from Sunday. “You know what’s funny?” he asks, shifting on the stool beside me. His knee rests against my own. He makes no attempt to rectify it, and I’m sure as hell not going to. Apart from that awkward-as-fuck kiss the other night, this is the closest I’ve been to Will in twelve years. “What?” “The fact that we’re thirty years old, sitting in a bar with nothing but liquor at our disposal, and we’re still drinking this shit.” He raises his glass in the air. “What’s wrong with Bundy rum?” I ask, feigning offense. Bogan rum-swilling meatheads who get shitfaced and then get into it at the bar have given it a bad name over the years, but for me, that burnt sweet molasses flavour holds a lot of good memories.
