Foaming

Alone at last!
So very, very alone.
I look down at the glass on the table in front of me.
Small table. Small, round, easy to clean surface. Ready for the next customer.
Just like my house. Just like my furniture.
Just like my wife, and my beautiful little daughter.

When I looked at the empty glass, I couldn't help but think of the slogan:
"Half full"
(Well, half a slogan really.)
(Actually to be pedantic, as it's two words out of three, only two thirds of a slogan.)
What are words, though? Not important at all. A mere collection of letters.
So, actually, if we count the letters, and spaces to be fair, it's really, um – five, six, ten, eleven, fifteen, and then five, six away, that's nine – nine fifteenths of a slogan.
Tch, less than two thirds of a slogan – not much of a slogan at all, really. Not enough to hang your fucking hat on, let alone your fucking life,
Glass half full indeed. Look at it!

But I pick it up anyway.

I've always loved the feel, the heft of these glasses, thick, chunky, weighty. Proper handle. A proper handle on the weighty affairs of life. And best of all, the trick my dad taught me. Hold it right up to your ear and you can hear the sea.

So I do.

Foaming

No time like the present, no noisy people around, juke box is quiet, tellies are off, barman's out the back doing whatever he needs to do.

Ah, the ocean. Foaming ale, waves of comfort, turning tides, beer beer everywhere...
...nor any drop to drink this near to closing time.

Now if this were one of those thin glasses I could've smashed it and stuck a femoral artery by now. Good thing it's not, in a way.

—

In a way, that is. In a way, me buckos
Heave ho hearties, anchors away.
Live to fight another mis'rable day.

Must have fallen asleep. I can feel sand in my eyes.

Was I wearing a coat?