Honour Guard

There are beer bottles — two hundred? three? — lined along the plate rail, just a foot from the ceiling, like mismatched soldiers in uniforms pulled from seldom-used closets, faded over long years, passed down from fathers, perhaps grandfathers, but still worn with pride, even with scuffs at the elbows and tarnish on the buttons, even with the meaning of the medals now forgotten.  They stand a curious guard over what comes and goes — the ales and the porters, the scotches on the rocks, the occasional glass of wine, the even more occasional mixed drink, an order that disconcerts the bartenders and quiets the regulars, because it is does not befit the honour guard.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: