The Shame, So Shamelessly Held

I cannot say with any certainty why it came to me, then, there, but it came to me unexpected as birth. The kitchen was bright as the summer and comfortable as the paving next to the swimming pool. Our hosts were pleasant as we were, the conversation pleasant as our hosts as pleasant as we were. Yet somehow it came to me that there might be a man at the table unpleasant and angry as life itself, and somehow it came to me that he might be me. I didn't like him much but I wouldn't dare tell him, he was far too unpleasant and angry, I'd seen his kind before. He was shorter and stouter than I would be but he might be me. He was made of muscle and malice and maybe some contraband too. He had a mohawk, or something not far off, they'd not been seen much in polite society, not yet. If it was good enough for Mr T it was good enough for a swaggering bandit returning from prison, or from the war, or a crack-house on the fringes of midnight. He ranted some, he spat it out with relish. I'm not sure who he ranted at but he ranted, maybe at everyone. He may have ranted at me just a little, perhaps because I let him, but if you'd met him you would have too. 13th July 2018