The bartender wakes in his bed and slowly arises, still a tad bit sore from last night's revelries. He walks to the bathroom and begins his morning ablutions, thinking all the while of his vote. I am only one man. He thinks, befuddled. My Leave vote couldn't possibly have counted, not against all those Remains. He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the idea. "Well, count it did, old fellow, and you're none the better for it." His voice is thick and strained from last night's revelries. He finishes up and dresses quickly, hastily pulling on jeans and a vintage Bill Haley and The Comets shirt and a pair of plain sneakers.
The bartender descends the stairs quietly, careful not to rouse any of the remaining patrons as he approaches the window. He gropes for the blinds' cord in the near-darkness, but finds it soon enough and yanks on it hard. The blinds fly upwards, sunlight hitting the room and ending some of the patrons' drunken sleep. "Morning, sirs." Milky eyes blink slowly, numb mouths mumbling greetings in delayed response as fuzzy memories trickle into exhausted minds. The bartender passes around some water and collects a meagre amount in tips, then shoos them gently. "Sirs, I do believe you ought to go home to your wives now." The men stand slowly and shuffle out the door in packs, wincing with every slow step.
The bartender closes the door behind them and sets to work, cleaning his pub diligently. Amid dropped mugs and forgotten jackets, he finds his night's profit. As the clock strikes eleven, he finishes his cleaning and stands, stretching his tight back. After a moment, he pulls on his leather jacket, a concession to his '50s style. He checks his appearance in the mirror a final time, smiling at the greaser in the reflection before setting off for lunch. He whistles as he walks, at first a bright, chipper tune, but soon a darker, morose lament as his thoughts turn once again to his vote. There, there, Theodore. Great Britain can take care of itself. Slightly reassured, he strides on, now only thinking of his rumbling stomach.
YOU ARE READING
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General FictionIn the wake of the United Kingdom leaving the European Union, it is proudly claiming to have regained its freedom. The so-called "Brexit" movement is apparently successful; however, once the shock and exhilaration ebb, how will they proceed without...
