She held nothing back. That was her way; maximum disclosure, honesty. Full and brutal honesty. There were incidents in her past, incidents that scarred her. Left their mark. Below the surface but ever present, just awaiting the right audience. The right amount of alcohol. Tonight, he was her audience and the drinks he bought encouraged a reckless stream of honest histories. He had bought more than her time; he’d acquired a dark world he never knew existed. A world he wanted to believe never existed. How he wished he’d just smiled and moved on.

Later she’d not smiled but had moved on. Into the Bruges night.

Earlier

The writer was in Bruges.

No, no; that won’t do. Say that again.

“The writer was in Bruges.”

Two lies and one truth in just one sentence.

He was in Bruges. True

But frankly, he was unused to being written about in the third person. An unnecessary literary conceit.

Also - to be picky - the description ‘writer’ does some heavy lifting in those five words.

Noted. But let’s move on.

The writer was in Bruges.

He walked through the pre Xmas crowds. Not for him the overpriced Christmas markets, the ‘hand-crafted’ baubles from China sold out of MDF huts by bored vendors on minimum wage. His purpose was more focused ; get pissed and write some scabrous observational piece from the vantage point of a bar stool. He’d done it before; in Antwerp. In Krakow. In Delph. And now Bruges; pretty and full of tourists and beer. His sorta place.

But although the beer flowed, the words would not come. Like a semi-drunk middle-aged man with a hot chick, it just wasn’t happening. His fingers poised on the keyboard, his eyes searched around the bars for life, for action, for those human foibles that populated his brand of travel writing.

It was raining. He’d got wet looking for that perfect bar. The perfect bar that had the right balance of observable transient people, friendly staff, couples decoupling or attempting to couple. But today, it wasn’t happening.

And so he stumbled into the night, this place and that place and until he found the place.

Delaneys Irish bar. Oh the shame; an Irish bar in Bruges. He always avoided these, preferring, demanding local hostelries. But frustration and writer’s block blew him out of the rain and into Delaneys.

It must have been at the bar. It must have been that they were English. It could have been that they were away from home, looking for a good time away from all that home implies. Maybe a trail of bars paved their route and they were already semi drunk. But whatever the catalyst, they got talking.

A taller girl, polite but unengaged with the Writer, perhaps less refreshed, perhaps annoyed with her friends, kept her distance.

Another - let’s call her Roxanne - had a look of a chunky Michelle Pfeiffer about her. Or Cameron Diaz. He couldn’t remember which. She was on a mission. Some recent messy break up with her boyfriend back home, who, frankly, was a user and a loser. Or that’s the story her friends shared and who was the writer to dispute this? Men all are, in retrospect.

Did the writer rule himself out of Roxanne’s temporary redemption at the hands of a stranger in a foreign city? Did she, instantly comparing him to taller, fitter - younger - options in the now crowded bar, make it apparent he was not to be the author of her subsequent regret. Maybe.

We all like to believe we are agents of our own destiny. The writer, occasionally, believed this. That we briefly ascend above the quotidian and break free from the set of tracks life has assigned us. Or maybe it’s all chance and serendipity. He also believed this and perhaps his solo treks, his bar stool philosophising, was a detached celebration of this.

Life in the detail is infinitely wondrous. It’s when the lens pulls back you get to see ants scrabbling around in the preordained fashion.

She - let’s call her Karen - instantly attracted him. She was shorter, with auburn hair. Perhaps prettier than in a less obvious way than her blonde friend on a mission. But she held one key advantage, she wanted to talk and she liked, for some reason, for some explicable reason, to chat with The Writer.

Being older, he held certain advantages. Life experience. Not having to worry how to pay for the next drink. A certain level of education and a lifetime of talking to customers, knowing when to listen, when to prompt, when to take control.

The drink flowed. The laptop, encased in a backpack, beyond a reassuring weight by his feet, was forgotten. No observations from the cheap seats tonight; he was now in the play itself, finding his voice as an actor.

To his studied witticisms and cod philosophising, she was open, a torrent of life history, describing characters he would never meet, out of context situations he could only dimly comprehend. It was pleasing to him. Everyone has a need to confess, given time, given circumstance and he allowed her the time.

Roxanne, naturally given her looks and stated mission, was hit upon by several gallants. One in particular, inappropriately old the writer sniffily thought, was doing better than the rest and the two faded from the rest in time honoured manner. Minutes later they were wrapped in a kissy embrace against a wall.

The writer and Karen moved to a table with their drinks and - fastidiously - the precious laptop. She was engaged, or about to be engaged. The perspective husband was all right she supposed but - I dunno - Karen, on this night, with this person, given distance, was unsure whether she was making the right decisions.

She was twenty nine.

There’s a darkness in all of us. Who can doubt this? Sensing opportunity but not the tools, The Writer sensed a rare opportunity. Uncertainty of affection in a bar, away from home, is where a surface level conversion can start to operate on many levels. She, finding someone sensitive - a Writer, don’t you know, was with someone she could unburden herself upon. He? Well you know what he was thinking.

And she talked. Karen was an amusing anecdotalist. She made him laugh. He remembered this. She was funny but then, suddenly, serious, very serious. The amusing tales morphed and reshaped into a dark world of awful men, shocking memories, betrayals of trust. Fathers not being told in case they acted upon learning the truth and ended up in prison.

The Writer knew that maybe it was like this. That behind many women there were stories like this. Not the stories he liked to write but unwritten stories held within. Karen told him of two in a ‘that’s life’ type way. Not self-pitying. Not looking for sympathy - far from it - but related facts, just facts. She didn’t cry. There was no anger. Just resignation. Life’s like that, you know? What can you do?

The Writer went outside to think, ostensibly to vape. There was much to think about in that narrow, focused way drunks have. Was this how life really was? And if it was, what was his place in it? He had a code of honour, a belief in romance, in inevitable destinations through smiles, mutual attraction, consent. How much pain and regret and anger was there hidden? How much had he missed as he glided upon the surface of things, idiot-clever, never seeing another world below?

Back in the bar the table was empty. Where was Karen? He searched the bar looking for her. Not here. Not there. Roxanne had detached herself from her erstwhile paramour and was now closely engaged with one of his younger friends. The first guy seemed angry and was being rationalised by the taller girl of the three. There was a version of ‘leave it, she not worth it’ speech in her mouth. He seemed unconvinced.

And then The Writer spotted Karen. Over at the far side of the bar perched on a bar stool next to a balding man with his arm around her. She was leaning in. He seemed happy with his possession, no doubt plotting next moves. The Writer already crestfallen, fell further. His place here was now redundant. His part in this play had been written out and he should gracefully exit left.

Something made him go over. He’d chatted to her for an hour. They had bonded. It seemed polite to say goodbye. To be the good guy he always imagined he was.

“Thank fuck you’re here! This guy is like a bloody octopus!” Karen detached herself and, picking up her drink, walked over to The Writer. His smile was instant. Doubts moved away as they went back to her friends. There was commotion between the two suiters of Roxanne that was rapidly attracting a crowd. Karen and friend formed an uneasy wall between the men, Roxanne and several late comers amused by the spectacle.

All was uproar and raised voices. Roxanne, now pissed, was arguing with her friends. She’d made a decision and wanted to go home with a third guy who, silently, had joined our group. He seemed sober, well dressed. Good looking. Yes, yes, just the sort thought The Writer bitterly.

The girls were arguing amongst themselves. Old enmities were brought up to met by counterpoints from way back. The taller one took charge. She was the most sober and clearly was the mother of the group. She suggested they take this outside. They all agreed. Karen raised her eyebrow at The Writer as they went outside onto the terrace. He stayed at the bar ordering a fresh Kriek. Best to stay out of it.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Alarmed he rushed outside to see the three girls in the distance passing De Verliefden statue walking away at a fast pace.

Out into the darkness of Bruges.

Hand On It, Rejections from the article

Let’s not batter the veneer of this literary creme brûlée too hard with our spoon.

And my favourite:

Was life as the perpetual outsider, the not so detached observer of human follies finally realising the stinging words pointed at others were but pale cousins to the unwritten rebuke subliminally hidden ?