It’s red, the bottle of wine. At this time, on a friday night, there isn’t much left. The book is open, face down, on the stool in front of me. A good book, but it has already served its purpose, for the evening.
John sits on the sofa, smacking his lips, after a bread roll, watching the snooker, on the telly. Six reds, six blacks, a disappointing miss. It’s green, the snooker table. The black is black. The book is read, like the wine.