JUST A NUMBER
Wiping down the bar area, it was another busy Sunday down at the pub.
‘Pint of Tennent’s please,’ a familiar voice called over.
‘Right away, Steve,’ I smiled.
I’d been working in the pub for about a year by now, and every Sunday, without fail, Steve would come in for a pint of Tennent’s lager.
Him along with the usual bunch of locals.
All huddled around a table, they’d come and go throughout the day.
‘Oh, you can do better than that!’ Steve chuckled, once again poking fun at my pint pouring skills.
Over the past year, I’d grown rather fond of Steve and looked forward to his weekly visits.
He’d always find a way to make me laugh, even if it did involve complaining about the head on his pint!
Like most of the men in the pub, Steve was much older than me – I guessed somewhere in his 40s.
Just 22 at the time, there was at least 20 years between us, but
