CARIBBEAN COKTAIL
CARIBBEAN COCKTAIL Late into the summer evening the steel bands were still in full song. You could hear them even above the hubble-bubble of Frank’s patrons. Anyway, the doors and windows were open. It was steaming, man. Our eyes met across the tables. Guys came to Frank’s Bar to find other guys and hopefully get laid. He was a lager drinker, a good sign. I was on iced cider, the latest craze. He was coloured, probably Caribbean. This part of London had its share, especially on carnival day. When he went to get a refill at the bar, I went too. I’d timed it that way, pacing my drink with his. I stood next to him waiting my turn, listening to the rich inflection in his voice when he spoke to the barmaid, the only …