Last Beer to Hell
He had just settled with his chilled bottle of beer and a water-dripping glass. His favourite position was vacant at his arrival; a darker corner of the bar. It's also his best after-work 'watering spot.' Though equipped with countless swirling and twinkling coloured bulbs, the darkness of the bar still held sway over its brightness.
After a long, slurpy sip of the foamy, cold beer from the wet glass, he leans into his seat savouring the taste and the soothing coldness of the liquid as it courses over his palatte, down his oesophagus to the indescribable depths of his entrails. A triumphant smile plays at the corner of his protrudent lips as he remembers his wife's counsel. She is pregnant with their first baby and these moments are the singular moments that he enjoys because he does not need to help her stand up, raise her legs, give her an extra pillow, get her a glass of water, or most irritatingly bear her nagging complaint about tiredness, loss of appetite, minor to major pain and the likes.
How will she understand that a working man deserves the luxury of sometimes being allowed to indulge in allowing his mind to wander? he mused.
His smile was a victory for himself. The sensation he's deriving from his glass of beer is something his wife may never know especially if she remains wound up in her myriad complaints.
The smile was still playing on the sides of his lips when it happened. He only heard a loud bang and then he felt himself ejected from his seat and floating in space. When he opened his eyes, he saw what appeared to be his legs, still clad in his well pressed Armani trousers, drifting in the opposite direction to where his eyes were being pulled to. He still had an opportunity to see his torso and what remained of his hands gyratingly moving away from his legs and his eyes. There were other hands, legs, torso and sundry accoutrement of people whose crime deserving such disintegrating end is their exercising of the fundamental human right of taking beer to soothe a parched throat.
His feeling and seeing were no longer the same because they have been severed by the unexpected explosion. But with the remaining consciousness that he could muster as his life petered out, he remembered to handlessly wipe the self-ingratiating smile off his face because she was right. She told him that morning before he left for work not to go drinking because there could be a bomb attack.
He wished he had listened. He wouldn't have made a widow of her nor miss the birth of his child. But we know what they say about wishes, horses and beggars.
After a long, slurpy sip of the foamy, cold beer from the wet glass, he leans into his seat savouring the taste and the soothing coldness of the liquid as it courses over his palatte, down his oesophagus to the indescribable depths of his entrails. A triumphant smile plays at the corner of his protrudent lips as he remembers his wife's counsel. She is pregnant with their first baby and these moments are the singular moments that he enjoys because he does not need to help her stand up, raise her legs, give her an extra pillow, get her a glass of water, or most irritatingly bear her nagging complaint about tiredness, loss of appetite, minor to major pain and the likes.
How will she understand that a working man deserves the luxury of sometimes being allowed to indulge in allowing his mind to wander? he mused.
His smile was a victory for himself. The sensation he's deriving from his glass of beer is something his wife may never know especially if she remains wound up in her myriad complaints.
The smile was still playing on the sides of his lips when it happened. He only heard a loud bang and then he felt himself ejected from his seat and floating in space. When he opened his eyes, he saw what appeared to be his legs, still clad in his well pressed Armani trousers, drifting in the opposite direction to where his eyes were being pulled to. He still had an opportunity to see his torso and what remained of his hands gyratingly moving away from his legs and his eyes. There were other hands, legs, torso and sundry accoutrement of people whose crime deserving such disintegrating end is their exercising of the fundamental human right of taking beer to soothe a parched throat.
His feeling and seeing were no longer the same because they have been severed by the unexpected explosion. But with the remaining consciousness that he could muster as his life petered out, he remembered to handlessly wipe the self-ingratiating smile off his face because she was right. She told him that morning before he left for work not to go drinking because there could be a bomb attack.
He wished he had listened. He wouldn't have made a widow of her nor miss the birth of his child. But we know what they say about wishes, horses and beggars.
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