“Fuck it anyway.” I’d searched the entire flat and found only two clean socks. They were not matching, but comfortable. Then to step into a cold puddle, left after my own shower. Later, as I sat at my destination, pint in front of me, I made a feeble attempt to rotate the sock to move wet part from underfoot. It was a sign of my distracted state that I’d entered a post-shower bathroom with socks on and no shoes. The event occurred as I got ready to come here, to The Alma, to meet and break up with Lucy.

Two trendy media types, hair spiking in various directions, came in. I couldn’t read the second guy’s T-shirt. The lighting in The Alma was soft and the walls painted a dark plum. This was a good place to have an emotional conversation without the punters reading your every expression. It had been recently renovated and most of the former customers went with the price increases. The walls featured brass cherubs with disproportionately large heads. Their arms morphed into holders of electric candles. The cherubs’ sculptured stomach muscles, while a trifle out of place, seemed practical for holding up such huge heads. The door opened again, my stomach rotated. It was not her, but an old man in weekend suit and tie, curly hair tamed by brylcream. He was a leftover from the pre-renovation clientele. He nodded to another old relic at the bar, sat two stools away and spoke not a word. His drinks appeared by the magic of the predictable.

The door went again, not her, but a man with neat attire and rebellious hair. His lady had the wide eyes of a stalked gazelle. She hovered inside the door, searching for propriety, before following her partner to the bar. She whispered rapid communiqués, he nodded like a man who had accepted his fate and asked for a wine list. The barman obliged, checking himself in the enormous mirror behind the cash registers. He was handsome, tall and only slightly flawed by a receding hairline. My eyes moved to the door through which she’d just entered.

She paused in the centre of the room, scanned it slowly, enjoying the attention from every head that could turn. She found my scared rabbit eyes, gave me a wolverine look and gesticulated to ask if I wanted a drink. I shook my head for no. She went to the bar. After ordering the barman’s eyes guarded her arse as she walked towards me. There was no trace of Lucy the insecure tonight. “Hi,” I managed pitifully.
“Hi yourself,” while kissing both cheeks formally she placed her hand between my legs, “oh, you’re concerned about something.” She sat down, spread her arms across the top of the leather sofa. It was chilly out but she had carried her jacket.

Lucy stared at me with dark eyes, striking against high cheekbones and mulatto skin. Her hair was springs, coiled with potential energy. She wore a pink T-shirt with the words “Sex Kitten” written in little sparkly bits. Her jeans stretched across an ass that some would have covered with a jumper tied around waist. She carried it with confidence, leaving no doubt of its beauty. Tonight her high heels were red. “Well, what’s on your mind?” There was the briefest note of anxiety in her voice before she relished the interruption of the barman. His eyes never left her as he put down the bottle of Champagne she’d ordered. She reciprocated, silently mouthing the words “thank you.”
“It’s nice to see the old Lucy back again.” I said when the barman was out of earshot. Lucy kept her gaze on him. “I haven’t been gone anywhere lover.” Her eyes directed me to the uncooked bottle, my instructions were clear.
“Indeed,” I said limply. Lucy was at her best like this, all brash and audacious. Normally, I couldn’t see past her insecurity, loudness and self-possession. Tonight she was playing a role, the champagne a necessary prop.

"So you came here to dump me?" My prepared scenarios had not included such a direct approach. I elected to give a fixed stare. "You’re not denying it."
"No Lucy, I’m not denying it." She sipped from her glass, looked away.
"Someone else?"
"No, things have just changed. We got together to have fun. We were clear that there was no big commitment…"
"But that was nearly a year ago."
"Exactly. It’s grown into something we didn’t intent."
”You think I’ve become dependant?”
"No I’m not saying that," but I was thinking it. "It’s time for us both to move on. We’ve had a good time…"
"But now you’re scared that I’m getting serious, beginning to love you," she snapped the glass up, gulped.
"I don’t suppose to know your feelings Lucy."
“Well fucking thank you for that,” her voice was rising as tears began to invade her eyes. Her barman stood, arms crossed, ready to ride in as saving white knight.
“I don’t think you’re sure,” she said, head lowered, tears coming freely. My tears began at the sight of hers.
“I’m sure enough.”
“Then fuck off and let me drink my champagne.”
“Lucy, listen, I…”
”FUCK OFF,” she screamed, shattering all other sounds. All eyes came to us. The barman began moving forward. I’d had my share of conflict for the night. I gave her hand the briefest of touches before leaving. The lady with the stalked gazelle eyes stared at me in fear and curiosity. As I reached the door my mind perversely made me turn. I wanted a last image of Lucy for my mental scrapbook.

I saw her sitting and in the next instant she was flying at me. This was another scenario for which I was unprepared. The coach on which we’d sat was also coming in my direction. The instant elongated. I turned my head in time to see the handsome barman be shredded by the huge mirror, which with the shattered bar bottles formed a shower of lethal confetti. Hunks of masonry were flying through the air and I saw the brilliance of the rising sun from the corner of my eye. An instant later the sun had set and the world went silent. I knew nothing of the manifesto or motivations of the people who planted the device. They knew nothing of Lucy or me.

Some flames dancing on the bar gave a soft light. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there. There was something heavy on my chest. I couldn’t move. Then I saw someone walk around. I watched like a baby, with no conscious thoughts, just pure observation. It was the woman with the gazelle eyes. Her face was bleeding. She seemed to be asking a question but I heard no sound. I stared. She kept repeating her question, now just one word. Then she made a circle with the thumb and index finger of her right hand. This time I understood the shape of her lips. “Ring”. Then it made sense. Her wedding ring, along with her left arm, was missing. I tried to answer her but a spurt of warm liquid came form my mouth in the place of words. She looked at my response and then walked off to find someone more useful.