By Baker Street
I am sitting inside the bar of the Café Pacific, drinking a cold beer. I sit
on a barstool by the window and look out over the dark, rough ocean. The waves
roar and crash on the rocks down below.
Inside the bar there is a small crowd of locals, bustling to and fro between
the bar and their tables. The barman is always busy serving drinks to a new
customer. Then he would ring up the order on the till, sort out the change, and
walk down the length of the bar the bar to the next customer.
Smoke fills the air inside of the bar in thick swirls, and the ashtrays on
the tables over-flow with ash and cigarette butts. On the walls are photographs
of old ships. The people drink, and laugh and converse with each other around
their respective tables, spread out over the bar-area. There is a constant
hum-drum of noise, as they relax and drink and speak among one another.
I sit, not really paying attention to any of the talk, but keep myself
occupied with my own thoughts, as I look out over the sea. It is pleasant
inside, and I sit for a long time looking out of the window, out at sea.
I sit and drink my beer slowly, as the talk and camaraderie in the bar
continues, and darkness starts to fall outside. Still the sea roars, and the
mighty waves tumble and crash on the rocks.