Ghost Story

I never used to believe in ghosts.

There were four of us, back then: me, Tom, James and Beth. Seventeen years old, drinking alcopops in the White Horse and smoking joints in the park.

And eventually, we grew up.

Now Tom’s got a wife in Sheffield. James emigrated. Beth earns too much at HSBC.

I saw them all off, and at twenty-eight, I’m all that’s left. No more alcopops, but the same White Horse, the same park.

Sometimes, I think I still see them, and me, reflected through the bottom of a pint glass. Ghosts, all of us, every one.