Patsy would come up to you without warning and start conversation. Thin as a rake, his handshake was strong, though his voice was a bit wobbly, especially after a few pints. And the conversation, no matter how it started, always ended the same way.
Patsy was a fan of sharks.
During the day, now he was no longer a working man, he'd go to the library and get books on sharks out. Or videos. Or whatever he could get that had shark-related content. He never talked at great length or with any particular clarity on the subject. He didn't need to. He'd read the books already, and he knew perfectly well that his was an unusual obsession and that there was no point in sharing his special knowledge with the great unwashed.
Most people didn't understand what was so special about sharks. There were many facts about sharks which Patsy knew, but he would only share them with you when you were so drunk you would forget them by the next day.
That's why I can't remember them now.
Patsy's memory wasn't so good either. I remember introducing myself to him at least three times. Then we'd talk about sharks, or rather, he'd talk about sharks, and I'd listen, until his attention wandered from his own monologue and he'd head off back to the other end of the bar, where he'd left his pint.
When I first started drinking there, he'd always be there till closing, but as the months went by, he'd leave earlier and earlier.
Then I stopped seeing him at all.
My memory also isn't so good. I can't remember the last time Patsy told me about sharks.
But I was drinking there this evening and another of the regulars told me that Patsy died last night.
We wished him good health one last time, and then I got extremely drunk, as one does.
I don't fucking know.
Good health, Patsy.
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