The ochre liquid swirled in the glass,
catching the dim light of the TV.
Sunday night, the sanctuary of the week,
was turning into a familiar grim scene.
Adrian and I silent spectators
of a world gone awry,
our shared cynicism a bitter form of companionship.

The anchor’s voice,
a monotone counterpoint to the escalating chaos,
reported another shooting in Malmö,
the usual suspects, said the police chief, a man whose face
held a mix of weariness and condescension.
Adrian snorted. “Same old story, different day,”
he muttered, his eyes fixed on the screen.

I nodded, my mind wandering to the countless faces
that slipped through the net of the order.
Young men, in a society that had failed them,
becoming statistics in a never-ending cycle.
The police chief, a man of privilege, could afford life.
But for those trapped in the crossfire,
life is a high-stakes gamble.

“but when they see us,” Adrian said, breaking the silence,
“they think, ‘those guys, they’re safe.’
they don’t fit the chief’s picture.
Funny how that works, huh?”
His laughter was tinged with bitterness.

I raised my glass in a silent toast.
…to our eyes,
our blue eyes.