Christian Foley – Happy Hour

Everything in the hospital ward was tinged blue. Water coolers. Corridors. Other men. Through the blurred pane of the window I watched the therapy garden. The colours were vivid. Red. Green. Months later I was out. A bar. Last orders. Someone still pulling amber pints. Low lights. My mates poured into the drizzle. Grips for goodbyes. I stayed behind a bit. Mind medicine still making me sick. Everything was tinged blue except for one thing. A pulsing neon sign. Red. Green. They had forgotten to turn it off. It looked loud. In your face. Happy Hour. Happy hour. Happy Hour.