“You’re dead to me V.”
Names changed to protect… Something.
An English ale house. An Irish pub. A bar that banned running shoes, but allowed Chuck Taylors. It felt like everything in this place was trying to be something it wasn’t.
Something else. Something more?
A facade. Can it all be facade?
It was an Irish pub, or so it declared. A dark wood bar, stained pine, if you looked carefully, and a handful of booths. Some green trimmed, some red, it might’ve looked like Christmas. From a distance.
The floors were sticky. Undecided if they were carpet, or floorboards or linoleum older than the patrons.
They were all sticky.
You ever wonder what a pub floor tastes like? Me neither.