Heart of Glass

By Jon Nixon

The broken neon sign, blinked and winked ‘D SCO’ in dusty, coloured letters.

Four a.m. on the Spanish coast, separated from the group—and beautifully incapable.

The pink arrow hooking under the ‘O’ guided him in.

As he entered the empty bar, Eighties’ pop music flooded his every nerve.

The floor, sticky.

Inebriation level, overload.

‘Blondie’ pulsed through the ageing sound-system.

This was his moment, alone, without the rest of the rugby boys he’d left in the strip-club.

He closed his eyes.

And danced.

Then danced some more.

Danced the dance of an eighteen stone loose forward who loved The Eighties.