Member-only story
I Am But Summer to Your Heart
And not the full four seasons of the year
When the Colonel walked into Flanagan’s Pub, the usual assortment of regulars greeted him with smiles and waves. He adjusted the leather satchel slung over his right shoulder, trying to relieve the sting of an old injury that radiated pain down his arm.
“The usual, Colonel?” said Sandra, the young bartender with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and the kind of radiant personality that lifts even morose souls who shake their fists at life.
“Yes, my dear. And could you bring a dish of those new honey mustard pretzels? I seem to be addicted,” he said.
“Sure thing, Colonel,” Sandra said with a smile.
He eased the satchel off his shoulder and slid into the worn leather seat of his favorite corner booth. He liked this booth because it was in the back of the pub, where the noise was less acute and the ceiling light sufficient for reading and writing.
He opened his satchel and pulled out his leather writing journal, trusty Parker 45 fountain pen, and the latest book he was reading: “Until August” by the late author Gabriel García Márquez.
