Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Surprise, surprise.
Closure was a damn fuckin’ lie. Because that envelope held a letter from my father, and as I took it into my hand, I could feel the weight of it like a fifty-pound dumbbell.
“Who are you?” I asked the woman, not recognizing her.
“I’m… well, I should let you read the letter. It’ll explain it all.” She took my hands in hers and shook them. “I’m so sorry.” In her eyes was a deep sorrow, the same kind of sadness reflected in the few people that had attended the funeral. Somehow, though, hers seemed to run deeper.
She left, getting into a dark town car and driving off down the shaded road of the cemetery, leaving me behind with a hundred different questions.
I got into the back of the cab. I held the envelope in my hand, wondering what would happen if I just slid the window down and tossed the damn thing out onto the grungy street.
That’s what I wanted to do. I should have never come. I let my mother convince me this was a good idea. I should have stuck to my gut. This was a mistake, and the burning envelope in my hand proved that.
I told the driver the address to the flat I was staying in. He tapped it into the navigation system, and we were off. I had asked my mum if she wanted to spend some time together, but she said she felt like sleep was the only thing she wanted. I wondered if she knew who that woman was. I didn’t even get a name, but the way she was looking into my eyes, the way the sadness washed over her, I felt like she had to have some kind of strong connection with my father.
The driver turned onto a faintly familiar street. A lot of this part of South London was coming back to me. I had left Kingston when I was nineteen, so there were plenty of memories built up in the narrow streets and brown-bricked buildings, their windowsills painted white, their walls practically touching their neighbors. Not all memories were good, but most were. Most were really good.
“Turn here, please.”
“Sure thing, mate.”
We drove down a less residential street, homes being replaced by newsstands and boutique shops. There were more people out on the streets around here, shopping and going out to eat, walking hand in hand with their dates. A movie theatre blurred past, the marquee lit up like a spotlight, a long line stretching out past the ticket booth.
“You can stop here,” I said, realizing we were getting close. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice night out.”
“It is, innit?” The driver pulled to the side of the road. I thanked him again and hopped out, making sure I had the letter in my hand, although I briefly considered leaving it in the back seat and being done with it for good.
Down the street I went, the letter weighing me down like an anchor. I had a remedy for that kind of trouble, though, and it involved downing a few shots.
I almost walked past it at first. Time doesn’t stop for anyone or anything, that was certain. A lot had changed since I left, my favorite pub being one of those things. I remembered coming to this place when it was a hole-in-the-wall, serving questionable food but excellent liquor. The crowd was always the same and always entertaining, and the bartenders had turned into good friends of mine. I met my first drag queens in Hopkins Mug and taken my first body shots there, too. It had felt a little like family after a while.
Unfortunately, time wasn’t kind on friendships either, and I had lost touch with them years ago.
Part of me hoped they would still be in there. Like a time capsule just waiting to be split apart. The second I walked in, I half expected to be greeted by cheers and familiar faces, all having been preserved in amber and waiting for my return.
Of course, that would never happen. Shit changed, and that was apparent by just looking at the building.
It was a different time seventeen years ago.
Bloody hell. Seventeen years ago?
I looked at the updated facade. The pub looked nothing like it did all those years ago. For one, it had a new name: The Sword and the Sword. There were two swords crossing on the shield above the door, a rainbow behind the shield.
Clever.
The old brick wall that marked the entrance had been replaced by a sleek white wood, freshly painted and well taken care of. After the bouncer let me in, I was glad to see that the inside was at least similar to what I remembered. The tables were different and the pub looked bigger, but overall, this was the same pub I had come to as a kid and found a home in. I remembered the bussers, Alfredo and Kia, two people who had taken me under their big gay wings and taught me how to dance on our downtime. Then there had been Chris and Pradeep, the bartenders who had spent hours teaching me how to make every drink under the sun, along with how to make the most tips under the sun, too. Those two had been tip monsters, their pockets always full to bursting by the end of the night.