She jumped as a cat appeared out of nowhere. An elegant, angular chocolate Burmese purring away.
She bent down and stroked it and looked at the engraved name on the disc attached to the collar.
Voltaire. A different cat, with the same name. Unlike her dear beloved ginger tabby, she doubted this Voltaire was a rescue.
The cat began to purr. “Hello, Volts Number Two. You seem happy here. Are we all as happy as you?”
The cat purred a possible affirmation and rubbed his head against Nora’s leg.
She picked him up and went over to the bar. There was a row of craft beers on the pumps, stouts and ciders and pale ales and IPAs.
Vicar’s Favourite. Lost and Found. Miss Marple. Sleeping Lemons. Broken Dream.
There was a charity tin on the bar for Butterfly Conservation.
She heard the sound of clinking glass. As if a dishwasher was being filled.
Nora felt anxiety constrict her chest. A familiar sensation.
Then a spindly twenty-something man in a baggy rugby top popped up from behind the bar,
hardly giving any attention to Nora as he gathered the last remaining used glasses and put them in the dishwasher.
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