Mother and Son sit in a pub. They have
pints, they have arguments, they have mobile phones.
She has glasses, he has a bald patch.
They both have glasses filled with beer to the brim when one of them returns from the bar.
U r my son, she screams, her hair glances in the dim light of the pub. He - upset - gets up to buy more pints.
They drink lager.
They drink lager in a commodious pace, one pint after the other, no rush, a new one will be ordered as soon as the old one is taken care of. Commodious then as well the collection of the pint, in a commodious pace they are brought from the bar to the table by the mother, the son and the waitress.
The son fancies the pants off the waitress. She smiles, is friendly, takes the money, gives back change, leaves. The son's eyes linger on the posterior wrapped in tight jeans. The argument continues.