Victoria Heath

The service was always slow in the bar; but something about the place kept the feet of the locals running through the door. Maybe it was the beer, although come to think of it, the pints were always warm. Perhaps it was the chirpy barmaid, but her recent divorce had dissolved her smile into a fiery temper. Could it be the light? The way it beamed through the windows, but winter was fast approaching and sunlight was scarce. Or maybe, Allen thought, as he mused over his pint, maybe it was the people themselves.

Seed by Victoria Heath. Photograph by Willy Ronis.