Page 111 of The Black Flamingo

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Mia might not be.

Simon is studying engineering;

Mia is doing media.

“I would love to film one of your poems,”

Mia says enthusiastically. “Do you have

a YouTube channel or an Instagram?”

Before I can answer, I see him

approaching, behind her. White,

blond like Simon, six foot something,

pecs at my eye line, biceps bulging,

and what a smile! I don’t understand

why he’s wearing a tank top in autumn

but I’m not complaining.His arms are to die for!

“Madame. Monsieur.” He hands

a glass of white wine to Mia

and a pint of Guinness to Simon.

“Hi. I’m Mike,” I say. I mean:Who are you?

“Hey, Mike, Jack. Great poetry,”

he continues, “or is it spoken word?”

He puts his huge hand on my shoulder.

Mia looks at Jack’s hand, then

says to Simon, “I fancy a rollie.

Have you got your tobacco, babe?”

“Yeah,” says Simon to Mia, then

he turns to Jack. “We’ll be right back.”

I ask Jack if he wants a drink.

He says, “I don’t drink anymore.”

So I don’t get a drink either.

We sit at a quiet corner table.

We chat at first about the false divide

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