I Miss the Pub

I’m a fidgeter. I fidget. I’m anxious, and something is always moving; my toes, my knees, my jaw, and my hands. And I miss fidgeting at a bar.

Running my palm on the rough edge of a bartop made from recycled wood or the smooth varnish of flash modern ones. I miss the texture of those rubber bar mats that have tiny rubber fingers like sea anemones. I miss wiping spilled beer from the underside of my arm. 

I miss the stools that wobble and I miss waving my feet around trying to find supports to rest them on. I miss the stools that wind up and down, like a corkscrew, that are never at the right height no matter how many times I whirl them. I miss the stainless steel ones with a handle in the seat – the ones that had models recalled because they were ‘toe slicers’, and I miss telling people stupid facts like that over a beer. 

I miss the cold glasses, the pot glasses, the pint glasses, the tulips, and the ones too warm from the dishwasher on a busy night. I miss “what’d you get” and I miss “what’s that”.

I miss hearing about your jobs, and your weekends, and where you are going after this. I miss where you’ve been, and who you’ve been with. I miss the friends you just introduced me to and I missed their name then and I miss missing it now. 

I miss my friends selling me beer, pouring me beer, carting beer from venue to venue, brewing beer, and making the food we have just ordered. I miss knowing they have jobs and I miss knowing they are probably okay right now. 

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