“Surely you jest,”

“Surely you jest,” the barman shouted as a shoddily clad older figure lept of his stool, heading for fresh air. In the melancholic tranquility of this Tuesday’s late evening, an every step on the worm-torn floorboards was a distinct event. It took him a while until reaching the door, situated in a dimly lit corner of Tom’s.
I took another sip of my broccoli-flavoured milk. The mild gust of air from when he had finally managed to push open the heavy ’20s era single-winged door reminded me of Dorothea. “Dorothea and her summits …,” I mumbled in overcome despair. The barman sighed in sympathy. Having polished the last of the recent batch of mugs, he came over to ask if I wanted a refill. I declined and began to leave myself when the ceiling light gave out with a bang.

One blinding flash followed by sense-numbing darkness.

“Glad to be on my way out,” I noted with a chuckle, but got no response. I knew this place too well not to be able not to get trapped in it. Curiously, even the street lights suffered an outage, rendering the sixth in utter darkness also.
With the dim shine of the night sky, I walked off into the night.