A Clean, Empty House

The man pointed at me, not in an unfriendly way, as I approached the bar of the country pub near my home.

“You were at my aunt’s funeral,” he said.

I had taken off my tie and suit jacket but I still looked like an undertaker’s assistant in my long-sleeved white shirt, grey trousers and polished black shoes. In mid-summer, the full suit was uncomfortably hot; it was an invitation to dehydration.

“I was, I was working,” I said. “And we both had the same good idea: a beer to cool down in this heat.”

He too had taken off his tie, and untucked his shirt for good measure. He was near my age, I guessed, mid-fifties, and he was carrying probably twenty kilos around his chest and belly that it would be healthier to lose. His round face was red, his grey hair was very close-cropped, lending him a slightly aggressive look. He seemed a little steamed up.

I ordered a schooner and took it to sit near him. To stay aloof in a nearly empty bar would have been rude.

“I was…