iarpo

The bore-tender

I'm stood in a large triangular bar, an old pub. Small red atmospheric lampshades dotted around, old oak all over, once varnished, now smooth and worn from hundreds of elbows, old trophies and photos pepper the walls. The bar itself makes fills most of them room, right in the centre serving from all sides. A plethora of bottles filled refracting the light, the amber liquids almost glowing.

I'm the only one in the there, everyone else is in the beer garden outside drinking and having fun – it's a friendly, lively atmosphere. The bar tender's talking away to me, taking his time. I don't mind though, I'm enjoying my coffee, stirring in rich cream. He points to the TV on the wall in the corner, tells me his friend was in the TV show, but apparently he's a bit mental. He yammers on, I only half hear what he's saying. I can see my friends through the window drinking and having fun, getting the neighbouring table involved, wishing I was out there and getting a bit frustrated.

He keeps on talking, the elderly bartender, white hair, in his red velvet waistcoat. He looks like part of the furnishings. Like the old wood he moves to a different time scale. I'm getting really frustrated now, why won't he just get my pints? I can't seem to get a word in edgeways, I'm stuck in here listening to him talking away while the fun's outside. Through the window everyone's laughing. Guess I'll never hear that punch line.

My coffee starts to taste foul, like the cream's curdled and the coffee's burnt. This stupid old man. Just give me my pint – I'm your only customer! The coffee's disgusting. And he won't stop talking.