“Do you wear dentures?”

Johnny nods an earnest nod.

“They look really natural.” And we go right back into kissing, but only for another minute because a bell rings. Not the chapel bell. I don’t recognize it.

“Closing time. Come on.”

No, this is all wrong. Something from the Bad Place has made its way into my night and I can’t look at him now.

Rose and Gretchen are leaning on the steps. I think they’re watching pretty closely when Johnny and I appear from the other side of a big rock and walk back up to the tavern together. Paranoia and liquor bring a bit of scratchy warm puke up my throat.

Rose is holding a joint. “Got a light, big guy?”

Johnny snaps out his Zippo. Rose has a draw and then passes the joint to Johnny. “I think your missus is asking after you. Last call at the bar.”

As he goes in, I look through the windows at the stragglers. Everyone’s piling up together, smiling, pulling up tables and chairs at the far end of the tavern by the stage. Johnny and Suzie are cuddled up together again. Grover’s laughing with Frances and Ernie. Lyall’s come out from behind the bar and blows a funny little note into a tuning pipe. The Swans start singing some old English song. Then I get it. This is their closing time song. They all know every word:

Isn’t it grand, boys, to be bloody well dead?

Let’s not have a sniffle,

Let’s have a bloody good cry.

And always remember the longer you live,

The sooner you’ll bloody well die.

The Swans start getting their jackets and canes or whatever and make their way out but it can’t be time yet. Where’s everyone going? It’s not that late, surely.

Tiredness is taking over my brain and I wish I could curl up in one of the booths and sleep there. Rose passes me on her way out, gives me a hug and kiss, wishes me happy birthday one last time, and limps off toward her shop.

Black clouds stretch out over the patches of sky where stars still show through. No problem getting back on my own. Except that the stars are spinning faster than usual.

Rumbling noises come at me from the horizon and suddenly I’m trying to get home before it starts raining, and even though I’ve made this trip eight million times I keep getting lost and finding myself out by the coast instead of on the fast route straight through the middle of the island. The clouds are thickening up over the moon and I can’t see anything. My eyes keep closing too. None of this is helpful. The ground under me gets all rolly and crumbly. I’ve wandered onto the rocks. The sea is black and growling at me, parroting the sky sounds, ganging up on me again.