Half-pint
I was pouring one when they slammed the wooden doors inward. Old Jacques had been intently watching me but pretending not to, because in his core, past the churning topsoil of self-aggrandisement, he didn’t want to seem rude. His perfectly circular eyes with pink rims slinked now towards my face, down to the glass where the drink rose, then sprang back to the floor when he felt they’d lingered too long. This pattern never paused as he talked, and his talk never did for that matter, always somehow both pulled to a taught staccato and left dangling: ‘Hey, attaboy, Dave, ‘s’goin’ down a treat tonight!’
