"A pound coin clatters down the slot. I scroll through the song choices of the old jukebox, and punch in 6-2-4. A seven inch of The Cure's 'Lovesong' moves into position. The tonearm slides across and there's a crackle as the needle settles into the grooves. A distorted guitar chord erupts from the speakers into the empty pub, and the familiar driving rhythm starts. The churchlike organ, the bouncing bass, and the jangly guitar; churn up feelings that stir my gut.
I'm in The Wuthering Heights, a pub Dan and I visited in the early nineties. I go back to my seat and glance around the room. It still has the same decor: lead-framed windows and ornate mirrors; paintings of the Yorkshire landscape in gilt frames. The smell of real ale and stagnant smoke.
I'm twenty again.
I stare at the door and imagine Dan walking in. I haven't seen him for years."