I stared across the room.
Before the Brewery was the Brewery, it was LA’s;
a dark, dingy nightclub with black walls
and a sticky black floor.
It got closed down in the end
because it was notorious for drugs, fights and never IDing anyone –
even if they were obviously about ten.
The only way the owners could keep the place
was by turning it into a private members’ club
with no dancefloor and normal pub hours,
hence it becoming The Old Brewery.
It used to freak me out when it first re-opened,
because I’d just keep thinking about where everything used to be,
and how different it was.
The only thing that remained
was the smoking area.
I used to go to LA’s every Tuesday,
and each week,
towards the end of the night,
I’d be stood there,
looking in on the dancefloor,
with my mate Anna,
who I haven’t spoken to in years now –
and each week I’d be thinking
about how I couldn’t believe it was already a week ago
that I’d been stood in the exact same place,
thinking the exact same thing.
I used to remember that every time I went in the Brewery;
and I’m sure that even now,
all these years later,
the ghosts of us are still there,
hanging in the air;
cigarettes trailing from our fingers,
and completely consumed
by everything that seemed so important at the time.