...they filter off into the night leaving a void of silence where they were, the distant clacking of their heels fades into the tinny whines that emanate from the pub as i approach.
There it stands with a slow crocodile of drunken disciples beating a path to the door to come and throw themselves at the night and drink away all that clouds their heads when sobriety comes creeping round their fuzzed brains, stealthy and destructive like an assassin. their eyes look out, hollow behind the pink-cheeked revelry and the salty beads of sweat that course down their lined brows, stopping in each furrow as though to momentarily dwell on the troubled tales they hold until smeared away by the back of a hand into the damp halo of their hairline whilst the night procedes under the hot lights and stale air that circulates, thick with the twining smoke of their cigarette smiles and the suffocating wetness of sweet perfume, souring with each breath.
The doorway gapes. The sillhouette of a doorman imposes itself in the illuminated frame.