The wake was still in full swing hours after they should have closed up. Seventies pop and disco lights accompanied distant vomiting and the smell of cheap lager.
Up on the scout hut roof two figures stared across the city, its flickering orange lights hypnotic in the night.
“At least Joe died doing what he loved.” Bob said, taking a deep drag then letting the smoke churn around him.
Susan nodded then frowned, “Doing what he… Dancing in traffic, utterly smashed?”
Bob flicked the embers out, into the darkness. “No love. Being an arsehole. He absolutely loved being an arsehole.”