Мор - ученик смерти

           Themanlookedsidewaysattheemptyglassesonthecounter,someofthemstillcontainingbitsoffruitsalad,cherriesonastickandsmallpaperumbrellas.

           ’Areyousureyouhaven’thadenough?’hesaid.Itworriedhimvaguelythathecouldn’tseemtomakeoutthestranger’sface.

           Theglass,withitsdrinkcrystallisingoutonthesides,disappearedintothehoodandcameoutagainempty.

           No.WHATisTHEYELLOWONEWITHTHEWASPSINIT?

           ’SpringCordial,itsays.Yes?’

           YES.ANDTHENTHEBLUEONEWITHTHEGOLDFLECKS.

           ’Er.OldOvercoat?’

           YES.ANDTHENTHESECONDROW.

           ’Whichonedidyouhaveinmind?’

           ALLOFTHEM.

           Thestrangerremainedboltupright,theglasseswiththeirburdensofsyrupandassortedvegetationdisappearingintothehoodonaproductionlinebasis.

           Thisisit,thelandlordthought,thisisstyle,thisiswhereIbuyaredjacketandmaybeputsomemonkeynutsandafewgherkinsonthecounter,getafewmirrorsaroundtheplace,replacethesawdust.Hepickedupabeer-soakedclothandgavethewoodworkafewenthusiasticwipes,speadingthedripsfromthecordialglassesintoarainbowsmearthattookthevarnishoff.Thelastoftheusualcustomersputonhishatandstaggeredout,mutteringtohimself.

           IDON’TSEETHEPOINT,thestrangersaid.

           ’Sorry?’

           WHATisSUPPOSEDTOHAPPEN?

           ’Howmanydrinkshaveyouhad?’

           FORTY-SEVEN.