Quiet time

I'd been lying on the couch when the doorbell rang. I decided to ignore it; the curry I'd had for tea had been excellent and I'd eaten rather more of it than I really should have done -- there would be no left-overs for tomorrow's breakfast -- and was quite enjoying sinking into a spicy coma.
The crash was rather unexpected, and I froze, wondering what the hell was happening. Then there was a lot of loud swearing from someone with a voice like a nut-sorting machine on high-speed and more crashing. I relaxed a little, and then tensed up in a different manner, and pulled myself into a semi-reclining position. I was just patting the cushions into place behind me when MacArthur hopped into the living room, my letter-box wedged firmly around his other ankle.
"Your letter-box is broken," he growled by way of greeting. "It's a bit more of a cow-flap now."
"You mean cat-flap, Mac?"
"Only if your cat's as big as a cow."
I reached for my notepad to write down that I'd have to get the front-door replaced tomorrow. MacArthur's eyes gleamed as he watched, and he fumbled in the pockets of his trench coat.
"I have a bone to pick with you," he said, his fingers finding a cigar stub and a fold of matches. "You never let me have any friends."
"You don't know how to make friends! And don't smoke in here."
"Sure I do," he said ignoring me and lighting the cigar stub. A dull orange glow suffused the end and a curl of greasy smoke made its way leisurely to the ceiling. He tossed the matchbook on the table. "You sit down next to someone in a bar and introduce yourself."
"You sit down next to people in bars and spit in their drinks."
"It saves them having to offer to buy me one. Speeds up the friendship thing."
"You also sneeze in the barsnacks, don't always leave your seat to go to the bathroom, and assassinate the entertainment."
"That was once!" Mac had the cheek to try to look injured.
"Which was once?"
Mac shrugged, but otherwise ignored the question.
"I need some friends, someone more than just you. You suck."
"What for?" Mac's cigar suddenly burst into flame and he spat it out onto the carpet where he ground it with a shoe that looked as though it had lived a long life, been buried, then dug up again, worn by a tramp for a few years and then passed on to Mac.
MacArthur smiled, showing yellowing tombstone teeth, then gave up.
"Collateral," he said, sounding guarded.
"Real friends don't get used as collateral," I said, trying to be patient.
"What's the point in having them then?"
"And this is the root of your problem, Mac. This is why you don't have friends."
"Bah." He spat and shook the letter-box on his ankle, which stubbornly refused to dislodge. "I don't know why I bother talking to you, you're never any help."
"Feel free to stop," I said with sincerity. "Any time."

In vino veritas

Liam paused, holding the bottle of wine at arm's length. Behind him, the soft hubbub of conversation filled the restaurant, and in front of him, across the table, Miriam watched with bright eyes and trembling lips. Liam jerked his arm slightly upwards, a clumsy toast to Miriam, and then pulled it in and tipped the bottle to drink straight from it. He swallowed twice, then placed the bottle back down on the table. A thin dribble of red ran from the corner of his mouth and stained the collar of his white shirt.
"Well?" Miriam's voice trembled like her lips. In her lap, concealed by the snowy-white tablecloth, she folded her hands over one another repeatedly.
"There's the oddest flavour to it," said Liam, his voice slurring a little. "I'm more than a little tipsy, so it's hard to be precise, but it tastes kind of... bitter."
"I've heard that said." Miriam relaxed a little, her face smoothing out and her hands falling still for the first time all evening. "I've never wanted to taste it myself, but I've heard it said that it can be very bitter."
She paused, looking down at the table, at the space where plates had yet to be placed. "Or very sweet."
"I still don't understand, Miriam. Why did you want me to taste this wine?"
"It's a special wine." She looked up and smiled, little crow's feet forming at the corners of her eyes.
"You remind me of my mother when you do that," said Liam. "She had a way of being coy with people. It got her killed."
"You've said that before. I did want to ask you about that. How did your mother die, Liam?"
"She ran out of the house, running away from William, and out into the street. A cyclist swerved to avoid her, and she flinched away and her foot caught in a pot-hole. William came running out of the house and threw the knife at her, and she dragged herself out of the path of the knife and under an oncoming bus. The bus driver was looking the other way."
"William was your older brother?"
"William was my older brother's imaginary friend."
Miriam looked back down at the tablecloth, and her hands started rubbing one another again. The secret ingredient to the wine was a truth-serum; anyone drinking it would find it impossible to not tell the truth for anywhere up to five hours. And now it seemed that Liam's little madness, his devout belief in his elder brother's imaginary friend was somehow real.

Or Liam was actually incurably mad.

Miriam signalled to the waiter for the bill.