The room
Magic woven in words spoken, poetry in froth of beers drunk too quickly.
Smoke clouds the days before and the days after, tonight's crowd in the pub will sound the same as tomorrow's. The photographer's eye sees that the room is too dim, the light too uneven; the musician's senses are attuned to the silent piano, delighting in the sounds of familiar songs through smoked-out speakers. The joker juggles humour, linguist joins the jest, the poet breathes.
The coasters on the table ask on one side, "What is your favourite song?" and on the other, righteously proclaim: "Guinness. Pure Genius. It's like drinking your favourite song." I question its ingenuity.
Between being enchanted by the storytellers, we spin our own tales between pints, everyone has stories, snatches of history from which we weave one that is the now, the present carrefour.
The cold steals in through gaps in the windows, keeping the drinks chilled and the waitresses chirpy. Minutes nailed to the dartboard and time stayed away until we tire.
But meanwhile, it shall be of butterflies and spiders, friendships, loves and the lost art of carving quills.
Posted by sniffles at October 08, 2002 12:33 AM