Scent of sadness

Every village and why should the village where I live in be different from that, has one inhabitant, who is the most sad person of all. In some villages or towns they call this person a clown because it is widely known that those who are the most funny always have blue hearts. This village here has no clown, maybe its too small or maybe the last clown ran away with the great-granddaughter of a pirate queen , but the most sad person in this village owns the local pub. Even if you can’t see the pub owner you can smell him, because he smells of vinegar, seven days a week. Even if you do your shopping at the grocer’s store, hours after the pub-owner bought his cigarettes, you can scent that he was already there, not only leaving vinegar behind but this sadness he carries around with him seven days a week. When you pass by the pub as I do early in the morning, you can see him drinking black coffee outside, leaning at one side of the door, not looking up, whoever might passing by, his view is fixed on the empty chips bags on the ground and the bubble-gum sticking around all over the place. Sometimes, I am sure even if no one ever will see him doing so, he will while smelling the roses, glancing around for the coffin.  Worn-out looks the pub- owner and worn out look his guests, worn out is the pub itself. A dark brown, long ago painted room, scenting himself after too many drinker’s stories, where the sun never passes a visit to anyone. Never the pub-owner tells a witty story and never you  hear his guests inventing a funny joke, no one looks sports games in this pub or bets on horses either. No one will welcome you and there is no menu besides fish and chips with vinegar of course. The pub owner looks at you, measuring your sadness against his own, you will lose, he does not enjoy his sadness, but bears it as if it were his duty, his sadness so deep like walking through an ocean of fog, impossible to escape, but possible it is to sit their, in the pub and to drink silently, interrupted by nothing else than the pub owner’s barking cough from time to time as to prevent that someone might tend to forget that this is no circus with a clown in the middle but a pub owned by the saddest person of the village where never a circus was seen and never a pirate queen’s daughter will arrive, solving three riddles, and taking the pub owner with her away on a splendid white grey.

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