Unfinished stories

“You ‘picked up writing’.” Thom blinks, then goes back to tracing patterns on Colin's bed sheets with his index finger. It's four a.m., and they're both more drunk than they think they are.

“Yes,” says Colin, sipping from an almost empty glass of wine. It’s his fourth.

“What kind of writing? I bet it’s all smart-arsed Cambridge-y columns you’ll end up getting published at forty-six,” Thom snorts, and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud. He doesn't realise he's emphasising the name of the university in a snotty, childish way. It's how he says it in his head all the time.

“Actually, no. Stories.” Colin fills his glass for the fifth time and Thom’s for the sixth.
“People’s stories, you know. As in, the stories behind people.” Colin is slurring a bit. Thom just nods drunkenly and tries to keep his hand still when his glass is filled with more wine.

“What about our story?”

Colin appears to be thinking deeply.

“Ours is… unfinished. I’m waiting for it to finish.” He waves the hand that’s holding the wine glass, for drama.

“D’you want me to show you how it continues?” Thom asks, grinning, and spills his glass on the sheets as he leans over.

Colin already knows how it’ll finish. And he knows it isn’t pretty. He’s seen the first signs of a looming plot, dark and full of pain. But he decides that for now he’ll play along. And who knows, maybe he’ll succeed in stretching out this chapter a bit further. After all, he’s the writer.