on the northern line

lorenzo speaks to me. the couple next to him look at me quizzically (do you need any help? no, it's ok, i can handle it) lorenzo can't read or write, but he can spell his name: l-a-w-r-e-n-c-e. i tell him he should learn, he says he can read...lips! and he laughs a great big laugh. he raises his can of cider and tells me he's an alcoholic. he can't help it. he needs to get through 15 cans every day. do you drink wine he says (of course: he's from the glass-of-white-wine-for-the-lady side of life) no, i drink beer, i say. how many pints can you drink? oh, maybe 4, i say. maybe 5 on a good day. good on you, he says, you never know when you're going to die. he tells me of his friend, who has cancer which has spread to his bones. they live together in holborn. he tells me how he's a lot irish, and a bit spanish, lawrence-lorenzo. he calls me señorita. he makes me laugh, and i want to cry for him a little bit, but he's on his way, chirpy and twinkly, and he'll be alright. i'm sure.