The best drink in town

I come home and tell X I’ve found a pub. Not the ideal pub, of course, but not too far off. No music! I say. Above all no music. No radio, no TV. Local ales and a farm cider I could write odes to if I were a poet. Like mountain air. Crisp and flat and pure and cold and dry. The only real cider in town. Not like that horrible fake shit. And strong. More than three pints of this brew and don’t expect to walk home in a straight line, I say. It’s a working man’s pub, I say. I walk in and order my farm cider, drawing a few suspicious glances from the regular drinkers at the bar. They turn back to their conversations when they see I’m relaxed and keeping to myself. I sit against the far wall and prepares for the first sip. The best drink in town! I say. Soon I’m transported to dewy dawns in Edenic orchards, and the dirty carpet, stale smell and lack of light don’t matter! And what’s outside and waiting for me when I get home doesn’t matter. Not that those things matter much anyway, I say. That’s what this stuff does to you, I say as I slump on the sofa, it makes you remarkably clear-headed, for a little while.


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