Short and not very sweet. Would you _ever_ do this? Some may do, not out of a vile nature. Just out of curiosity. Start small, sample a friends. Then work up to that left by a stranger. (Yes I realise that the title is obscure)
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With quick hands Amos tied back his hair. The door to the pub was heavily sprung; Amos used his body weight to push it open. Inside it was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday evening. Setting his pint down next to a neatly folded crisp packet, Amos occupied a little corner table. On the far side of the table was a nearly empty glass. Disturbed by Amos and floating on the remaining brown liquid, a thin film of grease deposited a few soggy flakes of reformed potato up the inside of the glass.
Amos put his own glass to his lips and took a mouthful of his drink. The tepid liquid tasted slightly acrid but fruity. It was the fruitiness he had paid for; never knowing if a different brand would offer relief from the tingling taste of rot. Amos eyed the glass on the other side of the table. Its contents was lighter; likely to be a lager. The flakes had begun to re-enter the grease; floating around on the surface tension.
After another long mouthful Amos sat back in his seat. He looked at the folded crisp packet and then back at the floating particles. Placing his own drink on the table Amos reached out and brought the discarded glass into range. Across the room a member of staff was clearing tables. A few at a time, people were beginning to leave.
“Tube should be calming down by . . .” The woman stumbled as the force of the door pushed her onto the street. Amos heard the rest of her group laughing loudly.
The two glasses sat in front of Amos one promising familiarity and the other mystery and the unknown. A fly landed on the ring left by the recently moved pint glass. It paused for a moment and then lifted off; disappearing. Amos looked at the people left in the pub. There was no one he knew. The person who had been collecting glasses was now serving at the bar. Amos felt free from attentive eyes.
The glass was at room temperature. The outside was slick from unknown greasy fingers. Amos lifted it and let the fluid into his mouth. A particle of potato stuck to his lip. He wiped it away and tasted the drink. Warmer than his own and flat; it tasted distinctly wrong. Not yet swallowed it sat there behind his teeth bathing his tongue. Amos lifted the glass, again, and was ready to spit.
The door to the pub opened once again; sucking in a cloud of smoke from outside. Amos looked up into the face of a colleague. His mouth was still full. The woman smiled at Amos and walked up to his table.
Amos swallowed; still holding the glass.
He felt the foul lumpy lager slide down his throat. He coughed and greeted the woman who now sat with him. She looked pointedly at the glass on the table then the one in his hand. “Bad day, huh?” She looked at Amos. He looked at the floor.
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