The Snug

The taproom is a crush. You slide between heaving shoulders, squeeze between pockets of overheated laughter to a small room set aside, a place closeted in smoky isolation. Here the barmaid appears on the half hour or sooner. Mostly she’ll let the ‘snug’ be, while a clot of patrons nurse their dark brews. Grey mustaches puff in the stuffy fumes, noses drip. In a cast-iron frame, a sooty anthracite smolders. A fat creamy dog stretches on the scuffed linoleum; as you step over it, it bares yellow teeth and farts garnishing a long lingering funk. There’s a rain-coated woman sipping in a corner. You consider a few pick-up lines. The plump barmaid arrives. Calling for another you scurry to the counter. Behind your back, the woman leaves. When, with your foaming ale, you turn back to the room, the locals are smirking, as if they’d known all along you would be leaving the snug - alone.