the colonnade

They met by the patisserie in the Colonnade, beneath the clock, near the “strolling ladies” who worked on through the day, just moments from the market place, the central offices of the organisation, the bus station, from numerous amenities. He presented a single flower, a carnation, which she held to her nostrils and sniffed loudly and wetly through her congested airways. Odourless, as ever, save for the faint hue of petroleum from the garage forecourt. She smiled grimly and put the flower into her handbag which, he noted, though empty was almost certainly big enough to travel with, perhaps even for weeks. He took heed of this within an instant. She presented a miniature bottle of the same whiskey he had passed comment on in his online profile not once but in fact on three separate occasions. He fancied himself a connoisseur of the drink but was no such thing, although to his credit he drank and drank heavily. His enthusiasm was authentic and he gripped the bottle like some precious amulet within one hand and leant to kiss her cheek, a gesture he loathed and yet performed frequently; of awkward nature their lips puckered simultaneously and their heads turned together in such a way as they kissed the other’s mouth parts, much to her distaste. He peered this way and that, up and down the Colonnade, and opened the bottle in a practised movement; he savoured the whiff for a second or two then swallowed the contents in one broad mouthful. The incredible burn as it hit the back of his throat made him retch and her eyes narrowed as she observed this. He drew the back of his hand across his lips and sniffed and took her by the arm towards the modest restaurant. He would be profoundly drunk within an hour or so and felt excited at the prospect. She wondered, as ever, why she was there.