Dom

Dom was on Dame Street, picking his way between puddles and chocolate bar wrappers. His mp3 player was cracked. He was looking down and inspecting it as he went.
Green converse shoes with orange toes went past.
"Mike!" He turned to call him.
Mike kept walking furiously, his head turned away, scrutinising the brickwork of an office block and attempting obliviousness.

The Jacks

"Rob! Drinks are on us mate. Isn't that right Fishtank?"
Last friday night we went out for Rob, who was leaving work. He was heading to Australia and getting married. All the lads from the office were there; Rob, Frank the Fishtank and me.
The Cross Bar was heaving. We were lashing the pints back before I went for a piss. The jacks floor was slippy, soaking wet and I tiptoed to the urinal, taking care in my new goatskin brogues. Frank came in behind me, and picked the urinal beside me. His head was sideways, he was pissed as a fart.
"Story fuckface?"
"Alright Fishtank."
He turned toward me.
"Were you knobbing Rob's missus too?"
His body followed his head's rotation, the arc of piss going first to the urinals' edge, then past it. It hit the wall, slashing across it. I watched, entranced, as it hit the outside of my urinal, then into it, joining my own arc. I finished and started to tuck myself away. Too late.
Beery piss splashed all over my knob and into my pants.
"What the fuck Frank?"
"Yeah. I know."