The Beehive

Tiny pub that almost has a candlelit feel. It’s the type of place you’d take a date or to catch up with an old friend… a place where you can talk and listen rather than a scene.
Some might find it boring but I think it’s the right place in the right circumstance.

«Fu, fu’s sake» he mumbled a second before the red head bumbled through the door. «You’re suppos’t to be here at quarter to12, it’s quarter past. I’ve got sh’t to do». «I sorry» she responds in broken English, flustered from the journey and the onslaught that served as a welcome to the day shift.
As she heads behind the bar the owner-​cum-​barman stumbles past mumbling under his breath. He stands outside his empty, silent pub at 12:15 on a Friday afternoon, lights a cigarette and sips what can’t possibly have been the first drink of the day before waddeling away down the street.
The barmaid reappears with a basin and descends to the gents to apply a cursory swab to the bogs. The sense of despair in the Beehive is palpable.
I return to my book.