Justin Booker leaned awkwardly on the rickety wooden table, which almost tipped over. As long as he had been eating, he had hardly felt the effect of the alcohol. But each of the five beers was clearly noticeable when he stood up. It was a miracle that he had neither lost his balance nor knocked over the table.
Nevertheless, he made so much noise that he attracted the attention of some guests sitting at the other tables in the bar. The Boston pub was packed every evening during this long, hot summer. In addition to local residents, more and more tourists were coming here. While the representatives of the Tuscany faction earned their daily bread as teachers or architects during the day, they passionately ranted until late into the night about how they would one day improve the world.
Justin Booker had little in common with any of them. He liked this pub because of its reasonably priced beer and proximity to his apartment. From here, it took him less than five minutes to get home. Although he was far from thinking about ending the evening. When he had come to a safe stop again and realized that he had attracted the attention of the other guests, he raised his hands apologetically.
"Sorry," he slurred, grinning broadly at the others. 'The last beer must have been bad.' Then he looked challengingly down at the man beside him at the table. 'Shall we have another one? I just have to go to the bathroom again.'
His counterpart raised his eyebrows but did not seem to think Booker's plan was a good idea.
"Oh, come on, just one more," Booker begged, giving him a puppy-dog look. 'One tiny last one. A pint of beer. That's it.'
The other man seemed to think for a moment. Then he nodded, and Booker clenched his fist exaggeratedly as if he had just won the Wimbledon final.
"I'll be right back, "he announced cheerfully, and the next moment, he had disappeared into the men's room.
When he returned a few minutes later, he looked down with great joy at the freshly tapped beers on the table.
"Awesome," he exclaimed, sitting at the table extra carefully so as not to endanger the two beers.
"Well then, "replied his counterpart, raising his beer glass.
"Cheers," answered Booker, reaching for his beer and drinking it down thirstily and in large gulps. With an expression of pleasure, he placed the glass on the table before him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ah," he sighed, 'that felt good.' He sat contentedly in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jeans jacket, hanging over the back of the chair behind him. A cigarette is the right thing right now. His sleeve caught on his pin as he was about to take the pack out of his pocket. He smiled. The small gold-plated pin shaped by the US state of Texas was his lucky charm. Many years ago, as a child, he had received it as a gift from a kiosk owner in Dallas. He shook his hand briefly so that his sleeve was clear again, fished a butt out of the pack and lit it. He inhaled deeply, forgetting briefly all the troubles and worries that had plagued him that afternoon. For that brief moment, the world was fine with him. The perfect evening. What Justin Booker didn't know was that it would be his last.