Homesick, Cork, Ireland.

A cold, well-poured pint of Beamish and a freshly-rolled Amber Leaf fag, back when they still sold it in 12.5g boxes. 

Alternating between sips and drags, perched on a keg with a cushion between your arse and the metal indents. Short stubby legs struggling to cross comfortably. Sipping and dragging. Watching the people. Hearing familiar accents and banter.

Cathal would shneak out for a ninja rollie when the bar was quiet. Orlaith and I would solve the world’s problems. Txus and I would create beautiful new ones. The time we had the lock-in was great. Then, Cathal quit and the place declined in craic when they started putting scented candles on the tables.