WITH MUSHROOMS

He was living over the road when I met him again last night.
‘Shall we go get something to eat?’ I said.
When we walked in to the Italian restaurant a young woman opened a fridge took out a Guinness for me and a Special Brew for him.
I turned and walked across dark heavily varnished floorboards to a counter in a window cut out of a wood pannelled stud wall.
‘I’d like some with mushrooms,’ I said to the man stood behind the counter making pasta with his hands. He gave me a small empty half shell of a baked potato he filled with mushrooms and pasta I ate sitting on a brown leather sofa next to my friend had a white china plate piled high with green salad.
When I went to the toilet I seemed unable to urinate in the bowl instead soaking several low bundles of old newspapers tied up with string scattered around the floor.
‘You want to come back to mine learn the songs?’ I said sat on the sofa again.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘okay.’
I knew he would because although he had more talent than me he’d rather the company I offered than spend the evening alone at his place.