Sip

I take a sip and the cold goes in.  My health is cold too.  I have a sore throat that scratches and resists all sips.  The sips become easier as the alcohol works to dull my sense of soreness.  My throat is slimy now and all dryness has disappeared.  The treat is milky and flat.  It’s bubbles are gathered at the top, and I have a thin layer of foam on my upper lip.  I lick my lip – that’s the best part.

Watching

I am watching from a wooden chair.  It is tall and has a very short back.  It’s not meant to be comfortable.  I am looking at the bartender – a fat, scruffy man who is surprisingly mobile in the narrow confines of the small bar.  His eyes are tired and he is staring at me menacingly.  Either a) He thinks I’m too young and I’ve had my way or b) He doesn’t like Americans.  I don’t think he does; he doesn’t like me.  Yelling – a young father is scolding an even younger child in a thick British accent.  He is wearing sports gear, a matching set of sweats – all blue, and has an incredibly trashy looking gold necklace.  It’s links are huge and flashy.  His hoody wraps around his neck as he grabs his child.  He’s probably demonstrating some poor parenting, and now he’s made a scene in front of some onlookers – and me.  I’m unimpressed.  Time stops while people glare.  I put my hand back on the cold cup of goodness – a dark, foamy, brown treat.  Time starts.