John Thurston (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quentinthurston) wrote2015-07-28 07:34 pm
quentinthurston) wrote2015-07-28 07:34 pm
Entry tags:
Trial Run [closed]
John glanced up at the sign, taking in the word pub and feeling instantly positive with the direction this evening was taking. It’d been a long day driving across the landscape of Maine. Rather than dedicate his evening to unpacking the boxes he’d only packed a few days previously, he’d decided to take in what nightlife a small could offer in comparison to that of Boston. Despite the nearly 30 years his family had been living in the States, his father would always choose to drink in a place that labelled itself a pub. So that seemed as good a place to start as anywhere else.
Inside it was busier than he expected, his mind automatically settling into the Mineral Point small town mentality. That town had been more family orientated though, not the most thrilling place for a teenager to waste his years –unable to get a drink as all the store owners knew he was under 21. His father would bring several crates of beer whenever he visited, muttering darkly that he’d been drinking weekly by 16 back home. Then again, who knew what sort of stuff his Dad had been into as an art student in the early 1970s.
Making his way toward the bar, he perched on the stool nearest to where the barman seemed to be lingering. Ordering a quick bud, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. Humming appreciatively as the suds washed over his taste buds. The next step from here, working out what kind of place he’d jumped feet first into. Shifting on his seat, his elbow knocked the person stood nearby, “Sorry love! Clumsy limbs,” he explained with a grin, British accent sliding over the words.
Inside it was busier than he expected, his mind automatically settling into the Mineral Point small town mentality. That town had been more family orientated though, not the most thrilling place for a teenager to waste his years –unable to get a drink as all the store owners knew he was under 21. His father would bring several crates of beer whenever he visited, muttering darkly that he’d been drinking weekly by 16 back home. Then again, who knew what sort of stuff his Dad had been into as an art student in the early 1970s.
Making his way toward the bar, he perched on the stool nearest to where the barman seemed to be lingering. Ordering a quick bud, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. Humming appreciatively as the suds washed over his taste buds. The next step from here, working out what kind of place he’d jumped feet first into. Shifting on his seat, his elbow knocked the person stood nearby, “Sorry love! Clumsy limbs,” he explained with a grin, British accent sliding over the words.
no subject
no subject
"Going to give a song or two a go in a few l," says Nate, taking a sip of his beer. "See if I can remember how it goes."