Angry Man with a Beard

It was Friday night. He had a creased brow, a magnificent mane and a lot to say. I watched him across the room from behind my pint. Then he stopped, looked over towards our table. I dropped my gaze. Cheeks coloured at being caught staring. I didn’t want to feel his wrath.

‘He’s coming over’ mouthed my ventriloquist friend as she drained her bottle of beer then said out loud “Right, I’m off.”

I woke early on Saturday. Remembered the crowded bar. The attentive audience to his heated words. I ran my finger along his unfurrowed brow and he purred.

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