A Song For Lovers

"Look at him, so," The Clarkster said, nudging Nige. "Off his face."

The Clarkster had a point. You saw them in all states on the karaoke night, but none so bad as McLughan, tonight, face practically pressed up against the television screen because his glasses were mashed up on the table he'd abandoned.

"He's holding the microphone like his pint, he's so drunk he's forgetting which is which on a second-by-second basis, just tried to sip the microphone, so he did!"

Nige watched. Nige wanted to sing. He'd thought he was too drunk. Not now.

He scribbled words.