I’m a bartender.

Friday night, and the cobbled paths are alive with movement. Plumes of smoke spiral into the distance, mixing with the echoes of raucous laughter and the occasional scream. The walkways buzz with youthful energy, a playfulness that recalls children at daycare. A crimson orb rests before the entrance, casting its glow against black lacquered paint and worn metallic handles. Its light, like a siren, beckons any wayward drunkards or patrons seeking refuge from the darkening night.

Inside, you're met with a wall of alcohol—each bottle a remedy, a potential cure for whatever ailment you carry. A jilted lover? Try a whiskey. Had a long day at work? Let this pint of lager wrap you in its warm embrace, offering solace for the evening.

A strange figure slumps at the front bar. Clad in black, his bowler hat tilts low over his face, obscuring his eyes. His silvering hair is neatly combed back behind the rim of his elongated ears, a subtle marker of his age. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches into the pocket of his long overcoat—a crushed velvet cloak, dark as a crow’s wing, its very fibers giving off a faintly unsettling energy.

His hand rests on the blotched, wooden counter. The skin is worn and leathery, fingers thickened with years of labor, stained with yellowish residue at the tip of his index finger. His hand tells a story, each line and scar speaking of long hours and hard work. His fingers are strong, muscled, yet their wear betrays the passage of time.

From the depths of his coat emerges a clenched fist, tightly holding a five-pound note—its edges bent, its corners crumpled and ragged.

He lifts his pint glass, swirling the last dregs of ale inside.

"Another?" I ask, eager to serve.

With a solemn nod, he confirms.

I retrieve a fresh glass and, with a practiced hand, angle it at roughly 45 degrees to begin pumping the bitter from the tap. The wooden handle is stubborn, requiring finesse—a slight twist to the left, a gentle pull to the right. Ale pumps, like the gears of a machine, must be mastered for smooth, swift service.

As the glass fills, I stop just shy of the top, giving the frothy bubbles time to settle. One by one, they quiet, aligning into a perfect, velvet scum. With a final pull, I finish the pour and set the glass before him.

P.S - Would you consider carrying on reading this? Thank you for any feedback.