A thousand pints, a thousand lies (Marcella Boccia)

The pub is a temple to the ordinary,its walls thick with the scent of old regret,where laughter is poured like bitter ale,and the truth is drownedwith each swallow,each clink of glass.A thousand pints,each one an empty promise,a vessel for the stories we tell ourselves—that we are whole,that we are not brokenby the things we never speak,the silences that settle between our bones.The bartender knows the ritual,hands steady as he fills the glass,as though pouring the weight of the worldinto something that will never be enough.He doesn’t ask questions,because here,there are no answers,only the fizz of a moment,the fleeting escape,and the taste of something we will never remember.I drink with the crowd,a thousand faces flickering in and out of focus,each one wearing the same lie,the same mask of joy,the same hope that tonight will be different—that tonight,we will touch something real.But the truth is lost in the haze of smoke,in the bitter burn that crawls down our throats,and when the night ends,we are left with nothing but the dregs,a thousand pints,a thousand lies,and the weight of what we never said.