He sat amongst the lunchtime murmur, forgetting the funeral—thinking of the friends that used to surround him, the times. Clutching his cold one. He scanned the room between sips, noticing he hardly recognized the place anymore. It was bigger than he thought. More than one TV on the walls. Served cocktails, pushed gin sales, menu-listed mocktails.
He drained his pint until all that was left was a frothy bottom, then left like he had been waiting all along in the wrong room and went home to his wife. She popped on the kettle upon his arrival, setting up his usual.