And it was this lack of training that sparked the fire of discontent that night. I allow myself narrative, and fall back a few nights towards the old week.
The ex stepped out from behind the dog-leg bar, shelves of obscured Irish malts, hungry faces muted in drink. The jukebox drew on soft tones, clouds of smoke circling, rotating in shifts near ducts, ordered cyclones near unreachable beams..
We struck out at an inadequacy with dirty, fallow words, the five of us; two pairs and a one. We spoke of the struggle as if it were a struggle, and factories fought with ponies in a vilification of imagined oppressors and none of it mattered very much, but we felt it, dwelling.
Class definition, class defiance, class dismissed.
There was age behind those eyes, slow canopies of thought; what price the growing between twenty and thirty? They all end in stories, these lives. That is all that is known; debts and stories, and nobody likes a debt.
(End on a question.)