A long walk for a beer

I want to walk into the local pub at 5:27 p.m. every day after work, order a pint, sit in the same booth that I have for years, wave to the same people I've known for decades, talk about the things we've always talked about -- the weather, family, the war -- complain about the rowdy crowd, remember old lovers, predict the perfect time to plant the tomatoes or harvest them; politics would be on our lips, football would be in our eyes, someone would start a game of darts and we'd all be color commentators talking about flights and angles and trajectories; and then after my second pint I'd shuffle back home to read the evening newspaper in my leather chair and fall asleep to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

There aren't any pubs around here.

But I can dream.

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