Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Tʜᴇ Bʟᴜᴇs Tʜᴀᴛ Mᴇᴇᴛ Tʜᴇ Aᴜʙᴜʀɴ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 21

"And then she told me I was the crazy one!"

He threw his hands up in the air melodramatically— the whole table went wild, laughing in hysterics. Glasses were raised, fists went down on the wood, cards were crumpled, heads were lowered.

Before it quietened to let him speak again.

"Like— come on woman! If I told you I went out drinking with Moth Man, you would believe me— that's how kooky you are!"

Then it all began over.

Everyone laughed uncontrollably. Grasping at their chests, setting their hands to their heads. Hiding their smiles behind glasses, before they chuckled all over again.

He was enjoying how happy he was making the table. He was always like that. He loved to see people laugh. He loved to be the cause of it.

"God Almighty."

It was just the break you needed, after all that had happened.

You rubbed your eyes clear of tears with a smile, your shoulders still shaking. Everyone else in the table booth was red-faced, smiles wide and joyous.

It was Christmas Eve.

All the townsfolk were crammed in the pub.

The dull hue of the overhead gas lamps bled the building in such vibrant oranges. Auburn and Coral set the shadows alight. Black between gaps and ridges, the windows darkened out, the sound of rain gentle in the background, drowned in the Tangerine flooding through the room. A tiny flame in the darkness, a spark of life in the dead of night.

Some folks were in the far room to the right of the door— playing pool or darts, or minding the little kids in beanbags. Some in the standing tables scattered in the foyer— or in the booths tucked into the left of the door, where you were now with a few others. Playing a round of Uno— but mostly you were all talking about life as it was before.

A lot of the islanders had moved here in their later lives. They were always the best storytellers, they had a little more to say about something small. They had more to say for life itself.

Vivian chuckled to himself, leaning his pint against his bearded lips. "It was like talking to a fence post." He mumbled before he took a sip, setting a few people off again. Laughter always in the background.

"I reckon she still talks about you at the dinner table," Josh laughed, pointing a finger toward Vivian, who chuckled and shook his head. "No one would believe she ever knew an old fisherman like me, she was too far up her own ass."

You snorted— lowering your pint in return for dropping a card on the pile, though, it seemed Ray Colins— the man beside you, was too occupied with eyeing up the shoddy woodwork of the table to take his go.

"She was a character, Vivian, that's for sure," Arnie offered from beside the fisherman, whilst sharpening a pocketknife on the metal braces. Vivian pointed his finger to the table, smiling at his friend. "There's cunts and there's characters— know the difference."

Laughter erupted again— bounding around the open pub. Catching to the cheers coming from the islanders playing darts, mixing together in the light atmosphere.

You joined in, unable to contain yourself.

It was hard to escape the ambience— the laughter, the pure joy sounding around the bar at every corner.

It was really a wonder— how he was able to pick your laughter up above all the rest.

Amongst the hues of orange. Floating in the backing track of otherwise obsolete sounds.