When a school-night pub-trip is hedonism itself 
I have to take a long look in the mirror.
He looks back, obviously choosing to stay in: 
I suspect he has some obscure passion; is possibly a philatelist;
Or has he some deviancy that requires a quiet bathroom? 
I heap scorn upon him, but he meets my gaze.

Perhaps his cold appraisal is a ruse?
The moment I leave he’ll be out, gigging, clubbing, on the town; 
At museums, plays, cultural events beyond my shallow appreciation.
Doubtless he has a network of friends from all the fancy places
They will glint from disco balls, scintillate in champagne bubbles 
While I am going to a pub to sit in the dark with a flat pint and an often depressed friend

I thought I had left him at home, but I glimpse him in the taxi that speeds by;
The shop window shows him startled by a shaft of late summer sun and when my eyes adjust he’s gone
At the pub he hovers over the barman’s shoulder gurning from the optics. 
Cheeky git could be anywhere, doing anything but instead - here! 
And he’s bought a mate to laugh at me too - all smiles as he claps a hand to his shoulder and - oh   

Turns out I cannot take too much self reflection