He’s talking too loudly to a lady on the ‘phone. A bit deaf, I guess.
He’s trying to remember the precise date of a looming anniversary, when a mutual friend died – when her man died.
Everyone in the pub learned that thirty something years ago they’d married. And that they were together at least 10 years before then. And that his smoking did for him.
They were looking back but no regrets were expressed. Regrets felt? We’ll never know.
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