Guinness with black

I went for my first walk around the village we have just moved to, alone. I found a church, a village hall, a library, a tea room, a pub and a couple of shops - one with the post office inside. I posted my letters there and a lady weighed them on a traditional scale, not trusting any electronic devices, using weights. I also bought a newspaper and then I went to the church. But the church in my village was closed, and so was the library, so I had no choice and I had to pop in to the pub and then I finally sat down in the beer garden, with the view of a pond. 

I was drinking Guinness with blackcurrant syrup, as usual. But this time I tried to really savour my usual drink, my Guinness with black. There was no reason to celebrate. Opening the newspaper made me sure that I should cry rather than enjoy myself, so I closed it. I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of the rich liquid, waking up all my taste buds. The frothy beer head stayed on my lips, so I gently licked them like a child drinking warm milk before bedtime. 

I wished I could be a child again, drink milk and sleep calmly without nightmares.

I opened my bag, took out my notebook and pen and I started to write. The wind played with the pages and my hair, disturbing the process of finding the right words, the appropriate words. It started raining. The large, heavy drops soaked into the ink and coloured the paper black. There was no reason to stay there any longer. But I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of my tears flush with mascara, which hacked their way down my face in order to join the spots on the paper. The dark furrows stayed on my cheeks like footsteps in the sand. 

I wished I could find my way, leaving behind the footsteps and the village.