Stella Artois

The train chugs peacefully through the mountaintops, steam wafting into the wind. The curves and bends of the train cut at angles to the curves and bends of the mountain itself. One can almost hear the rattling, but it’s oh so pretty that it doesn’t matter. We’re not on the train anyways, we’re in the crowd down below, watching and waiting for the previews. Inside the comfy wooden snackcar, a bartender’s hand attempts to fill a bell shaped pint class. His hands appear steady, but are not. The train rattles them. Fizz pours over the side of the pint glass. The customer does not care, but the bartender suffers grave annoyance, harrumphing and washing the fizz away. He tries again, to no avail. The lone customer shuffles his feet, out of sync with the train’s rhythm. He suffers from the same annoyance as the bartender now. The man, however, would probably not mind a little fizz in his drink, he is on a train and can look out and be pacified by the scenery afterall. The bartender disappears. All rattling stops. The man does not know why the train no longer seems to be moving, but he can now enjoy his drink in perfection. The bartender sighs, a job well done.