Small ice cubes.

Windwept, a sad looking gent come in out the gale. He orders a pint and I serve him it. I give him some nuts and I say: "There you go. That'll be three twenty.

He hands over the money and asks me if there's a jukebox in the bar. I say there isn't but if he has any requests I can look them up on Spotify. He asks for a Bob Dylan song. I find it, play it.

This man sits there, listening and drinking. It's a small bar, with a low roof and high windows. Outside the wind is blowing still, and the rain lashes down. I sit behind the bar and watch the man. Halfway through the song and the pint he gets up and walks out. I open the box of ice cubes, select one of the smaller ones and pop it in my mouth.