I stare at my beer. It stares back at me. Other men in the pub gloomly drink their beer and wait for friends or something. The balloon seller just sits and his ballons fill the space with their cheap inflated happiness. Old men talk to older monestoursly fat women that are their wifes. Outside the sun shines brightly on the gay shoppers.
In the dark pub I feel nothing. Just a Saturday. A small amount of work in the morning, now some quality relaxation time , then later perhaps a bus home and a book to be finished. The balloon seller streches his boney hand to his pint. He swigs a gulp of beer. The single red balloon in his collection bobles at the roof, either in disappoval or from the draft as a grey speckled man enters the door of the pub.
I drink to be alone sometimes. I don't like being distrurbed. The grotty ballon seller puts down the beer glass. He looks at me and says “I need to take a leak. Can you look after the ballons?”.
“Oh, yeah”, I say and he slowly picks himself up from the chair. He looks around the room in a furtive scared ways and starts to move towards the toilet. The balons boble on at the rooff. Not much chance of them being stolen, unless a troupe of six year olds wonder in here.