They are all in the Garden

After another, somewhat hastily organized trip to downtown Nightfall City, I head for "The Pub". Its hot. I could use a shower before the stout, but heck. It's only one more minute to walk ...

I spy the familiar door, sing out the magic incantation and the door opens with ease. This time I take care to avoid the booby trap and enter the pub. It's empty. Hmmm. Okay, okay, who would have gone to the pub on an amazingly hot Monday afternoon? Me, I guess. While I slowly move towards the bar, ~barkeeper shows up from below or wherever.

Noone else here? I gasp out. ~bartender snickers. "They went to the garden". To the garden. My mind slowly follows and wonders "Did he say garden? Not terrace?" But my mind in slow motion mode from the heat is not up to investigations.

~bartender? Would you please be so kind as to fix a jar of juice, whatever you fancy, a jar of water and a glass of White Port, please?

White Port? he goes. That's kind of rare!

Yes sure, but you see, the red one is just horrible to my sense of taste. I gave up on that red stuff long ago.

Ok, then, just a minute.

I walk through the door to the terrace. The busy sounds of the city are down to a whisper. Instead the sounds of crickets and birds prevail. I head for a small table in the shade. Strangely nobody is in sight ... except for ~bartender to serve my drinks. Thank you!

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Replies

~fish-fingerer wrote:

I often find drinking white port,
Is a task best performed in your shorts.
Drinking it in your knickers,
Makes it go down much quicker,
But leaves your head insurmountably wrought!

~stug wrote:

I have half a bottle of white port in the fridge. It is curious stuff really.

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