Perfect Circles

Perfect circles.
Alfie could draw them at will. He used it as a parlour trick in pubs, aged 14, winning shots of whisky that he’d share with me and Bird.
He could draw the different coin denominations. Perfect, every time.
The look on the punters’ faces when they laid down a coin: like they’d been at the Somme.

That was how we passed the days, back then. Before our relationships petered out, became lost in the labyrinth of life. Or maybe purposefully gotten rid of; left at the side of the memory road as we screeched away in a car, the smell of burning rubber assaulting the nostrils.
Yep, mostly abandoned.

In those days, we were carefree. Astounding drinkers was enough – or at least the reward of whisky was. Or so I thought. Our history through the eyes of hindsight is not quite as cosy.
Then again, whose history is?