Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty-Seven

under it painted with violets. The innkeeper pulls Bernie to this, and he goes willingly enough, relieved to be offered something like it. The hands pressing him onto it are, perhaps, unnecessary. The mug pushed into his hands is, one might not unreasonably protest, a distraction rather than a help. But Bernie is so disarmed by the warmth that’s just wrapped him that obediently he puts the mug to his lips for a sip. The brew’s aroma swirls into his head and his body responds with an inhale so grateful and extended that the little chapel of his meat unfolds