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draft glass | by Robb North
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draft glass

He called it a 'pony'...and his fingers were quite crooked when he wrapped them around it. One was even missing. He kept telling stories and finished each one up with a laugh that tipped him back in his tavern chair. After each finished and he let go with his laugh I was worried that he was going to spill over backwards onto the floor. Spill his beer, crack his head and spill his blood. There was this little feeling; one that told me he was a happy drunkard faking his way through every night he sat in that seat. Or trying to keep something locked up, maybe. There was something in his eyes. You had to be half-sober to see it. (I looked around...no one sober here.) He used the stories and the laughter to hide behind, to make those who stopped by his table think that everything was okay and none of it bothered him.

 

I started wondering if I should tell him that I knew...

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Taken on February 16, 2012