An arm swipes my face, leaning to take our empties. A series of games machines flash nearby. You complain under your breath. Later, at the bar, you despise my drinks orders, hate that I also want crisps. This has become a familiar feeling. This dull sensation of inevitability, the sheer power of sameness, that nothing ever changes, that pubs are pubs are pubs, would always be pubs. In one corner, men with loosened ties share loud conversations. Thick-necked rugby players grope and spit at each other on the television screen. Somewhere nearby, someone is humming a song by The Smiths.
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