He stared into the dark, red depths of his glass, not really seeing. There was no taste to the wine now, and no discernible rhythm in the music that could make him want to dance, even if he was getting rather good.
The boys on the radio sang their hearts out, and he pressed his lips together.

One by one, only the good die young. They’re only flying too close to the sun. Life goes on without you.

He quickly chugged the remains of what was probably a wonderful vintage, and pressed a fist to his mouth when it wouldn’t stop trembling and trying to twist.
I am not going to. I am not going to. I am not –

He covered his face with his hands and breathed deeply. His shoulders shook. If he lost control the dam would break, and then he’d never be able to stem the flow.

‘It’s probably not permanent - they must have their ways of - trust him to have a backup plan. It’s just a temporary inconvenience.’

He knew he was fooling himself. Backup plan? That boy didn’t do backup plans. Bugger it all; he usually didn’t have a plan A.

But he really, really should have known better than to go up there and demand – he didn’t know Michael; who’d waste no time going snicker-snack when he spotted a – oh dear God.

There was nothing for it now, halfway through the second bottle of Beaujolais he recognised a lost battle. Life was being such a – such a bitch, he thought, the corners of his lips quirking weakly upwards, only once. And then he cried.