*For The Bangers And Mash

...and in the eternal hope there's a poet around when you need one _SJ


For lunch, for the bangers and mash, Susan told herself, she went to Finn McCool's on the Avenue. Scanning the bar with a practiced eye, she noted there were no poets in residence. That meant no conversation for her. Only poets talked to strange old women in bars. Only drunk poets, she admitted.

The smokiest of scotches, she told the bartender and he brought her one whose name she couldn't remember a few minutes after downing it in three greedy gulps. Tir de limaeagh, she ventured a guess. Don't worry, Susan, the bartender said. It will remember you, and he brought another without waiting for her assent.

Ah, she thought, he was the one who remembered – her name and that she tipped well. She always felt safer with a smart bartender. Maybe she should talk to him about attracting more literary types here.

After the third scotch, the bangers and mash arrived with a fourth glass of... Glenemmet? No, no, Glen Emmet was a man she had been in love with years and years and years ago. How many years, she demanded of somebody walking by her bar stool. He laughed and said, correctly, too many. She didn't hear his answer but his laughter made her feel she had said something clever.

Her long skirt somehow wrapped around her ankles when she tried to climb down to go to the bathroom. She almost fell. Righting herself in time, her only injury was a hard smack as her elbow met the bar. She saw stars, but managed to hold a hand up imperiously, to stop anyone from coming to her aid. She didn't know that no one offered.

Slowly, with the dignity of a duchess or someone trying not to appear drunk, she made her way to the bathroom. Splashing her face with cool water, her vision cleared enough to make her look away from the mirror. It's a good thing no poets are here after all, she decided. No one would write anything pretty about that face.

Not wanting to chance the stool again, she stood for a parting glass and one more. Her chest was on fire. So was her soul. That was all good. Her idea of heaven was a warm place, while hell was as cold as Dante's vision of it.

The bangers and mash were delicious today, she told the bartender before leaving. I'm glad I stopped in for lunch.

She opened the door, and the wind immediately escorted her outside. I'll write my own poem, she thought. About how good bangers and mash make you feel on a chilly day.