...Lost for words. In the night, everything has been spoken. Everything has been heard. The sun will rise soon. The last of the smokers have left and you can hear them making their way to the single, narrow exit. Some walk, some stagger, and others are walked by their friends, or by momentary comrades they may never see again. You can hear their progress and can see one, or another, his arms around two sets of shoulders, as he is dragged forward. If you listen, you can hear the toes of his shoes, scraping over uneven ceramic tiles. You, and those you accompany, are given extra moments in which you may linger. The one in sandals, with the hole in his sock, raises the night's final toast. Toasted, he says nothing, but it is enough to see the raised glass, enough to raise your own and simply grunt. You down your liqueur--it is sweet, golden, and carries a bitter finish. It tastes of herbs, and kitchen-rack spices, at least 50 by what the bottle declares. It's good for the stomach. One of the two Americans with you declares, "It tastes like Christmas." And your sandaled friend, with the hole in one sock, laughs. He speaks English. He understands. Though for now, he finds Czech less challenging to his tongue, and so he responds, in Czech. You are warmed by the Becherovka you've consumed, but the bitter finish leaves you in a moment of existential crisis. The night's last taste should not be a bitter one. Beer remains in your glass, two good swallows, and you down them, after raising your glass in wordless salute. It is time to leave. The smokes have settled, and so you spare one last glance at the bar you love, the bar you've promised to return to. You smile and walk out. Your local friend bids you farewell and voices the hope that he'll see you in the spring. You promise that he will, if HE is around, and he says in response to that, "I am Czech...where else I will be?" In that moment, you realize that you're in love with the rakish beauty of his accent. Now is not the time to say too much more, and so you rifle through your limited phrases in his language, shake his hand and simply say, "Naskladano." And now, days later, you remember the beer, you remember the Becherovka, and you remember the hole in one sock, and the tiny spot of flesh peeking through it. **** As always, thank you for viewing and reading, commenting, and enjoying. Hopefully by next spring I'll be able to post NEW pictures of the Cross Club. It'll change by then, it always changes, since the owner and designer are commonly seized by fits and fevers of sometimes lurid creativity.