Alcoholic vs Tap Water Guy

I went to an Erasmus Society party. I didn’t know anyone there, so I made my face into a prow and walked to the bar. I spoke to a boy who looked sensitive.

‘I was also in Heidelberg last year,’ he said, his eyes rolling in panic. ‘Where was your base, where did you drink?’ He said the word ‘drink’ with frank and disgusting relish, he cherished it in his throat; his eyes grew big, his tongue licked his teeth and his mouth opened greedily, his pores inhaled and he shivered.

‘I didn’t really go out much.’ I said.

His pints arrived.

‘Did you not go to the Brass Monkey?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t go to the Brass Monkey? That was where all the Erasmus people went! God man, what did you do?’

My tap water arrived.

I asked him if he ever went to a jazz bar called Cave, pronounced ka vuh.

‘It’s like we went to two completely different cities,’ he said bitterly. He turned to his pints and picked them up. I watched as the corners of his mouth and eyes began to struggle. He didn’t know how to end the conversation.

He put one glass down and pointed over my shoulder.

‘My friend Ben is over there.’

‘Aha?’

‘He’s.’

‘Ben.’

‘Is.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah, bye.’