💾 Archived View for midnight.pub › posts › 748 captured on 2023-09-28 at 17:05:22. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
⬅️ Previous capture (2022-03-01)
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That night at the Sports Bar, I had taken my drink from the owner, Mo, and walked towards where at a table was that Franglais little lordy, sitting with his pint and shy collected manners.
He was with my Serbian bro, who had his head between his hands on the table, and moaned low.
I wanted to console my bro and really irritate the Franglais, but my benignity or spite was cut by the appearance of Subna, Mo's daughter, bringing a nice pretty warm and wet towel for my bro's head.
The Franglais was unimpressed like he had seen scenes like that one an infinity of times.
But that night I didn't had my bro weeping on my shoulder, or let my antics scare the Franglais. Instead, I got up, and walked into the shadows outside.
I walked through the most polluted street in town down amidst the industrial and recycling depots and their smoke and residue.
Passed the tall, large brick bridge underneath, and in an adjacent road near where I was climbing up aimlessly, towards Soho, and from the cold I sneaked into a shack which had outside in blue letters: MIDNIGHT PUB.
A weak fire crinkles quietly in a corner, promising to snuff out at any second and fill the room with smoke, but motheaten finger-gloved patrons feed it little scraps of the broken parket flooring to keep it going, giving the room a sickly-sweet smell of solvents.
A faint shadow flutters in through the front and all the darker shadows by the fire jump and hiss at it to close the door. The corner of the barman's mouth points upward in a feeble gesture of invitation, and somehow it's enough to draw in all the lost moths seeking their flame.