Tomorrows. Anthony Perrotta

It was a little after nine one evening and Oscar figured he would grab a drink. It wasn't a hard day, nor had it been an easy one. It just seemed to be more of the same old, same old. He had been feeling this way a lot lately. Oscar stepped into the pub and was overcome by a warmth, a refuge almost, from the bitter fall weather. A wooden plaque hung above the entrance. It read: Tomorrows, Est. 1948. 🍓 Запрещённое в соцсетях искусство — t.me/kartiny/6166     Oscar loosened his scarf as he walked across the room…