The last half inch of a black Americano
Beth sat and watched. She always seemed to be sitting and watching, while the boys in the band set up their gear in another grubby nightclub. There was a stink of last night’s beer and of bleach, fighting its losing battle in the toilets. Later she would put on the wedding dress and the veil and stand on stage while the crowd hurtled into each other. In the seventies the veil had kept the phlegm of appreciation from her eyes, but now it was a mask. With it on, she was a punk goddess; with it off she was gone.
About the Author
James Phillips lives in Bangor in North Wales, where he spends his days as a house husband and his evenings promoting and performing live music.
He has been writing stories, poems and song lyrics for thirty years. HisTwitter name is @JamesPMPhillips
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