In the locker room he sat down on the wooden bench, lifted his left leg onto his right knee and exhaled. He pulled upon the dusty brown laces of his work boot. Untying and loosening the laces, removing the boot from his foot. The damp sweaty sock had small holes burned in it from the sparks and slag of welding. Today, he was lucky, none of the slag burned long and hot enough to burn his skin. After removing the sock, he placed his hot tired foot onto the black and white floor tiles. The tiles, hidden from the daylight sun were a cool relief for his foot. He stared down at his foot, wiggled the crumpled misshapen toes, the gift of shoes too small, worn during an economic depression that lasted too long, and reminded him of elephant feet. His feet, size 8-1/2 triple E, stout round sturdy stumps, able to carry any weight across any landscape.
musty aroma and malts
thick body
foot like strong yet yielding to the shapes of the landscape or glass
low mouth fizziness smoothly the carbonation awakens cheeks
finish the swallow with cherry flavour
not cheery cough drops or cheery medicine
cherry taste hint co-mingled with malt
sweet malt low hop
excellent top off at 60 degrees Fahrenheit
gallons of white wine
sit on the shelf beckoning purchasers
He again lifts his left foot to his right knee. Right hand slowly reaches his left foot. Softly, his hand rubs his left foot. He begins to ponder whether he should go straight home or stop off at The Night Shift Lounge and play a set, or two, with the house band. It is for days such as this that he keeps his trombone in his work locker.
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