The Almost Man

I am the Almost Man; I might not do it, but I know I can.

I’m the one sat shrouded in quiet in the dark corner of the pub, under the radar, shunning the nonsense of a self-serving world with its soundtrack of empty chatter. Staring into my flimsy glass of thick Malbec, I’m contemplating how a single squeeze would lead to shattered glass and my open flesh. Red wine mingling with bright blood. Full bodied and vibrant. I could bite down on it should I wish, lacerate where I masticate, ribbons of face leaking over pub table, staining beer mats and altering their normality forever.

All options kneel before me, offering themselves for execution, all day, every day. Choices are defined by civility. We are all only one decision away from fulfilling primal urges rooted in thousands of years of cohabitation and tolerance. Few choose the red path these days, but I’m always looking at its map, poring over its darkened lanes and tracks.

And there, my peace is propelled away by you. Evidently fearful of silence and lacking empathy of those that aren’t; you enter the room to a fanfare of you and stand, the eye within a hurricane of hubris, intent on filling the ears of those unlucky enough to be sucked into your pointless vortex through proximity. Walls of words build and fall.

Air and atmosphere change. Where once was mutual contemplation to the tuneful tock of clock and pop of log; is now terse and tense; tired eyes throughout the room looking away, desperate to avoid the gregarious friendly fire of blanks and trivia.

Yes, I could easily chew on this wine glass, but your flushed face would suit it more. Four strides and one swing of the arm would change that song of yours for good. Let’s see you flap those lips when they’re on the floor. Let’s hear your boasts of achievements only you deem important once your throat is opened up and spurting your life force over the centuries of footfall on the worn wooden floor.

That squeal that cuts through your noise: my chair as I stand swiftly, pushing it away across floorboards with the back of my legs. Time stops, as if knowing a pathway is being chosen, a pivotal moment is unfolding. The Universe holds breath.

Mouth faltered, your eyes lock on mine and I see you shrouded in my red mist of your potential future. The pub hears the beat of my vengeful heart. Fire jumps from burning logs to the tempo and thud of decisions spinning on a wheel of misfortune.

That’s me, the Almost Man; I might not do it, but I know I can. That’s me, winking at you as I march across the silent floor towards you and stop, close enough to hear you swallow. The last of the Malbec is thrown down my gullet, and the glass placed on the bar alongside the decisions I didn’t take. Clock chimes. Wood burns and spits.

I slide through the veil of remaining peace, under the beams that have held the ceiling over generations of drinkers and their decisions, and sink into the relieved night.

I am the Almost Man. I didn’t do it, but I know I can.