The Brewery

Bitter hops filled my nostrils. The fresh scent tingling gently as it washed away the day’s accumulated tension. The brew sliding down my gullet was nearly therapeutic. Keeping my eyes closed momentarily I felt the days stress fall off. The bump of glass on wood drew my attention to the person on my right. Slouched on the bar stool next to me a refreshed sigh escaped the man, before he once absorbed himself in his pocket novel.

Gazing over him I could see the bartender drawing a pint while chatting to another customer. Her bright expression radiating warmth as she moved up and down the glossy wooden bar with a smooth professionalism. Turning my head slightly the taps and wooden placards were replaced with a open wall concept. The massive windows showed the brewers moving to and fro between the massive silver tanks. The lack of glass allowed the customers to hear unfamiliar terms and jovial banter as they worked.

The cool glass on my fingers prompted me too once again take a slow draught. A discreet sign pointed out the tank where my beer had been brewed. Appreciation filled me as I watched the brewing of the beer I would sample in the coming months. With every cool mouthful of beer the relaxation seeped into my bones. The stiffness in my muscles released incrementally, the weight of work and responsibilities easing off my shoulders. For a brief moment I imagined that they had taken the seat to my left, signalling for a pint with a sigh of their own.

The welcoming, warm atmosphere seemed a place where even those who normally caused stress could relax. From the corner of my eye I could see Misery enshrouding a corner, the hoppy IPA he preferred wrapped in both hands. Three stools down Pensive swirled his ale gently as he stared deeply into it. A loud guffaw drew my gaze to where Assertion, Corruption, and for some unknown reason, Deadline swilled back endless pilsners.

The rustle of cloth indicated the end of the pocket novel and the subsequent departure of its reader to my right. It took less then a minute after his departure for the seat to be filled again. The new occupant and I exchanged slight nods as he signalled courteously for a drink nodding again to the bartender’s “usual?” query. The silence between us stretched on comfortably. Eventually an appreciative groan broke the quiet. “This is still the best extra pale ale around”, the strangely gaunt man beside me spoke. Nodding amicably I concurred, “Don’t drink them dry Famine”. The man snickered, “Don’t drink to much either, you have a bad record with that,War”.