text: As I recall, we weren't really there. Our veins were being flooded with wine, beer and unnamed spirits that were named at the time, but I don't remember them. Despite that, everything had slowed down to an even pace. The sun stayed up forever, blinding us from being able to make eye contact across the beer garden table. We only found respite from the glare when we looked down at the black table-top to stub-out our cigarettes into the ashtrays. The flood of booze was raging, but it felt slow. Time limped away. Hours in minutes, it seemed. We were there for a good while, though. Four hours, I think. We had witnessed the rise and fall of strange men pounding flashing buttons on the bandit. We saw them lose £50 in the space of mere seconds, and we were infuriated. What a waste, we would think. I was annoyed at you, too. At the first sign of a dwindling conversation you took your phone out of your pocket, pretending to text people. Checking the news. The latest status update. Anything to stop you from talking to me. Outside, with the sun still punishing us, our silences were filled by sniggering at the drunks, already too drunk for this time of day, but we both knew we were no better. You asked to borrow a ciagrette, and then another, and then another, and then you would sigh when I told you I had none left. I wasn't lying, you know. I really didn't have any left. And it was because of you that I didn't. I stumbled to the shop to buy more cigarettes. One of the strangest feelings in the world is walking around a busy town centre at two in the afternoon drunk, when you know for a fact that every single person around you is sober. They are doing their shopping, taking their kids to the local park, mooching. But your vision is swirling. It's really strange but also kind of liberating. When you see a teenager doing something stupid you feel like you can walk up to him and starting a fight. When you see a police officer you feel like you can approach them and start swearing at them. But you never do. You don't have the spine, or more, your own brain reins you in, telling you you shouldn't. And that's fine, because knowing that you can do if you want, is good enough. I bought the wrong brand of cigs but that doesn't matter. They're cigs. Besides, they were for you, not me. This is a weird kind of drunk. Being drunk in the day time is different. It's like you're floating everywhere and not walking. There's a strong sense of independence. The spirits and whatever else running through me is probably why I didn't notice the homeless man at first. I took a double-take and walked backwards, back to him. He was on the floor, legs crossed as though he was doing street yoga. He had at least five layers on and a beanie hat despite the temperature reaching twenty. He must have been boiling. Or cold. The homeless man asked for change. I smiled, but I was careful not to make it a pitiful smile. I gave him a £5 note but in my stupor I would only later realise that I gave him a £20 note instead. But I don't feel bad for that. Money is paper. Paper means a lot to the homeless. I walked off but he whistled after me. For a second time now, I went back to him. He gestured for me to sit with him, and I did. I don't know why. I thought that I shouldn't because I knew you were waiting for me in the beer garden. Well, waiting for my cigarettes, not waiting for me. So I thought, sod you, you can wait. And you did, but I don't know how long for. The homeless person began rambling. I know it's a stereotype, but he did. He spoke of war, then tigers, then bread. I thought he was mad, but you can't blame him. Who wouldn't be? He spoke of hostels and free beds, but he couldn't stay at them any more. He was banned. Imagine, a homeless person banned from homeless shelters. Where can he go? And that's when he said it: He wanted to die. He could easily do it, but it would only be easy from a literal sense. After all, it isn't hard to kill yourself. What's hard is finding the backbone to go through with it. That's when I pulled my packet of cigarettes out and shared them with him and I thought, I'm not going to share these with my friend when I get back to the beer garden. It might have been the heat. It might have been the alcohol. It might have been a mixture of the two, which is more likely. Whatever it was, I had an idea. I offered to kill him. That way, he would die like he wanted, but he wouldn't need the backbone to do it. He agreed, but he asked me for another cigarette first. I gave him one, why wouldn't I? It's kind of like his last meal. He told me that he didn't want to know how he was going to die, so I assured him it would be a surprise. I struggled to my feet, the heat was far too intense. I felt the panic of the moment when you realise you're sobering-up, so I went to the shop and bought a large bottle of cider and a small can of vodka and coke. I drank the can really quickly. It nearly came out of my nose. I lit a cigarette and went back to the homeless guy. I told him the cider was for him and he smiled like it was Christmas to a child. He asked me how I was going to kill him. I told him I already did. He looked annoyed but that's okay, he probably knew what I meant deep down. You know what weird feeling when you're drunk in the middle of the day time and everyone else seems to be sober and the whole thing starts twisting? It's liberating. It's like a weird feeling of independence. On my way back to the pub to get back to you (you must have been waiting forever), I noticed a teenager chasing pigeons and making them fly into the faces of tutting old people. So I ran over to him and punched him square in the face. I felt one my knuckles slice open from a tooth, but I didn't feel the pain of it. The police officer I mentioned was still there, you know. He came over after hearing the commotion and when his eyes locked onto mine, you know what I said to him? I told him to go fuck himself. I laughed, probably a little too loudly, and then looked-up to the sky. The sun was blazing. Not a cloud to be seen. It was the middle of the day and I felt like I was the only person in the town centre who was drunk. It feels weird, but in a good way. Liberating. Then I was on the ground, kissing the concrete. I felt my hands being tied together and the cold metal hugging my wrists. Then I thought of you, and you know what I did? I laughed and thought 'You can wait in the beer garden all day you son of a bitch. You aren't having my cigarettes.