....For a moment the whole pub holds its breath as the excitable murmer of voices chatter, fuelled by intrigue as to what has just occurred. An eyebrow arches as a thick-set ginger man with a tattoo of an eagle with a scroll in it's claws turns to Michael and says, "You shagging her or what?" All the eyes turn to him as he draws himself up against the bar and quietly mutters, "It doesn't matter". The ginger man shrugs his shoulder and says despondently, "Only asking mate", then turns away to speculate further with his group of friends, a gruff laugh breaking from them at a comment I didn't hear.
Michael, head bowed, edges himself towards the door, a big man with heavy hands, nails outlined in oil or dirt pats him on the back as he retreats towards the door, the bouncers beady eyes condemning him with each echoing footfall. A group of drunks at the far end of the bar begin a mocking slow applause as he leaves, the brutal falls of their hands increasing in tempo until they're joined by the falsetto screech of a woman who lurches at him, her mascara heavy eyes clouded with alcohol as she crows some crude comment at him then moulds back into the jeering crowd, triumphant at her part in the grotesque carnival they are inflicting on the man.